The Long Way Back Sequel
by LouiseKurylo
Summary: AU: Done with Austin and free of the FBI, Jane and Lisbon chart their future in what remains a murky, dangerous world. Set realistically circa 2016-17 US, it immediately follows events in The Long Way Back. It stands alone, but is best after reading its precursor. / Any M sections are ID'd in the chapter. / I do not own The Mentalist and reap no economic benefits from this story.
1. Chapter 1 - Free At Last!

**Chapter 1: Free At Last!**

 **Austin, Saturday**

Sunlight lanced between mini-blind slats, striping the bed dark and light. Sable tresses glinted copper, bronze mane sifted gold.

Lisbon bolted upright. "We're late!" She jounced off the bed frantically seeking her clock.

"Ow-w-w!" His sprained back protested the jolt. "It's _Saturday_ and," needling her for the pain, "we're unemployed."

"Oh." She wilted and sank back onto the bed. She registered the dig and flicked his arm. "Rude, Jane."

He smirked as he carefully stretched, "But true-." He motioned her closer for a good morning kiss.

"Getting up?"

"Think I'll sleep in." He snuggled down under the covers and turned away from the light.

Lisbon dressed and set about packing the last of their meager possessions in their two no-longer-connected apartments. There wasn't much. They hadn't done much other than hunt Blake since she'd moved to Austin.

That killed less than an hour. She took a cold Coke out of the bare refrigerator to stave off caffeine withdrawal and plopped down on the couch. Her deepest wish had been answered when Jane came back. After prying Jane out of detention from under Fischer's bizarre oversight she'd gladly left her nothing job in Cannon River to work with Jane and Cho. Abbott had mopped up the lower Blake Association members in the two years after McAllister's death. It took Jane to flush out the leaders. They'd then worked regular FBI cases under Tork and Pike – _Frick and Frack_ , she thought scornfully – until a week ago when she'd strong-armed Abbott into cutting Jane a new deal. _Still have to work six cases a year for Abbott for awhile. But at least we're out of Austin. Jane's free to work and live anywhere he wants. ... Anywhere_ we _want._ This was the start of their new life. She restlessly went to the kitchen table and flipped open her PC. She would put things in order, make a plan. Despite assurances to Jane, resigning from the FBI _was_ a big deal – the first time in 25 years she didn't have a job. An income. A plan.

It seemed only an instant before Lisbon was back nudging his arm.

"I'm starving. There's no food or coffee."

He yawned and mumbled, "Wanted to sleep in."

"You did. Ten hours is enough. C'mon."

Fifteen minutes later he exited the shower. He'd barely dried off before Lisbon grabbed the towel. She threw sheets, towels and night clothes into the washing machine while he dressed. He ambled out of the bathroom while still buttoning his shirt. Lisbon had been busy. The bedroom was bare of personal effects, including the Violets print he'd bought after the art theft-murder case. He found Lisbon in the kitchen seated by her glowing laptop, surrounded by maps and printouts.

"What's all this?"

"Worked out an itinerary for our trip to California. Things we want to see, routes, schedule, hotels, et cetera. Gets us there with time enough to settle in before your–"

"– _Our–"_

 _"-_ plane reservations to London."

Jane's eyebrows rose but he passed on commenting. Now craving tea, he handed Lisbon her purse and shepherded her out to eat at a nearby diner. Upon return, the laundry dried while they schlepped their meager possessions to the car. Lisbon brought down her suitcase. Jane carried his suitcase and a box of books to the SUV.

They'd bought the SUV six months earlier after returning from their D.C. meeting with Stiles. Jane had gone to retrieve his Citroen from the impound lot where it was towed when they were suspects. The exotic little sports car would have been roadworthy despite bullet holes from the assassination attempt on Abbott. But inexpert towing ruined the transmission. It was one of the few times Lisbon saw Jane openly angry. After agitated pacing and muttered invective along the lines of 'gorillas,' 'ignorant,' and 'incompetent' he curtly told the lot attendant he'd have it towed later for repairs. Jane arranged for a classic car repair shop to tow and repair it. Lisbon didn't even want to speculate about what that would cost. The SUV was a stopgap. Lisbon would need one when they broke loose from the FBI. Having it would provide time for the Citroen to be repaired and shipped to Sacramento.

Jane put the box in the back. He turned and stepped aside to avoid crashing into Lisbon, using her shoulder to steady himself. She was staring at the box and suits laid across the back seat.

"Sorry," she mumbled, jarred from her reverie.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said too quickly. His expression said disbelief. She tipped her head. "Boxes. Your suits. Like when I left Sacramento."

He ducked his head to peer into her eyes. "We're moving _toward_ something, Teresa. Together."

She took a breath. "We are." _If only I_ felt _that way..._

The property manager was a welcomed distraction. He checked their apartments with close scrutiny to the repaired connecting wall. Surrendering the keys severed their last formal tie to Austin.

Jane tossed the paperwork into the glove box and winced as he eased into the passenger seat. Lisbon immediately put the itinerary pages within reach on top.

"You gonna be okay in a car all day?" She had to suppress a double-take every time she saw him. Jane wore casual clothes he'd bought after detention. His ranger shorts, gray-on-gray patterned tee and sneakers were infinitely more practical than suits for a road trip in the Southwest. She squelched a smile. _Jane_ would _pay two hundred bucks for a t-shirt. Brands I never heard of. And he's hiding the shaved spot._ Jane had brushed his hair over the scabbed cut from Keller's attack. Contrary to her initial take years ago, she concluded Jane wasn't vain after he wore ugly 'grandpa' loaner shoes to irk her. But Jane looked good, knew it, cultivated it, counted on it. If she were honest, it was part of his appeal. _Phfft. 'Appeal.' Admit it: Gorgeous. Even after all these years-_ His reply snapped her back to the present.

"If we stop occasionally."

She looked away and focused on driving. He'd tease her all day if he read her thoughts. Soon they were heading south on I-35.

Jane reopened the topic Lisbon had been ducking all week. "You renegotiated my deal with Abbott." _I would've paid to see that_.

She carefully kept her eyes on the road. Neutrally, "It was time."

"While I was out of the picture?" getting to his real question.

She shrugged casually. "Hey. We got what we wanted."

"No complaints with the deal. Why that moment?"

She sighed, knowing he wouldn't let it go. "The sooner the better. Wanted Abbott to handle it before he left for DC-"

"He could have done it from DC."

Increasingly tense, "Because of the last case. Last several cases."

"What about them?"

She grimaced. _We've been over this!_ "Pike and Tork were a menace to your health."

Mildly, "Meh. Markham was a fluke because you got pulled off monitoring. The art case ended rather well I thought. And this last one – didn't go as planned but it would have worked out."

She pulled over, yanked up the parking brake and jabbed on emergency flashers. Eyes blazing, "'Worked out'?! You were chained and unconscious in a serial killer's truck!" voice rising.

Jane shied away. "Ah, can we talk _calmly_? –Minimize the hearing loss?"

No less angry, she managed a lower volume. "Dammit, Jane, you refuse to get it! No way life under Frick and Frack ends well. I couldn't manage the situation with those two."

Soothingly, "Of course not, they were the leaders."

Dangerously quiet, "You think a title makes them leaders?"

"I only meant they had the formal authority."

"Tork can barely lead himself. And Pike!" Scornfully, "Mister Cookbook Management. Follow protocol and CYA." She closed her eyes, paused, then turned to face him. Jane smoothed out his smirk from her scorching assessment of Pike. Quietly, "Jane, you are incredibly useful for investigating." He brightened until – "And near impossible in law enforcement. The _only_ people you should work with are us – the team. It took _years_ before we could predict when your schemes would go haywire." She looked away then continued, deadly serious. "You were living on borrowed time. The sooner I fixed that the better."

Jane puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. "I am delighted to lose the Feebs. But you're just–" he skipped the word 'over,' "–reacting to last Thursday." Hurriedly before she could react, "Keller wanted me alive. I could have manipulat–"

Exasperated, "–Prefer Kevlar to talk when bullets are involved."

Jane's lips twitched. "That's where McKaye went wrong." Hoping to mollify, "Hey. Keller's house is on our way, right?" She nodded stiffly. "Let's stop. I'm curious about someone that fixated on killing psychics. I'll show you how I would have escaped."

She scowled at his certainty, then grudgingly allowed, "We can stop." Getting underway she muttered sarcastically, "'Would have worked out.' _Right_."

Twenty minutes later they pulled up to a shabby single story ranch like thousands dotting the Texas plains. The only distinctive feature was the basement with stairs to the outside. The house was unguarded. The ME had removed the corpse; Forensics, the other evidence. They ducked under the yellow and black crime scene tape. Jane pulled lock picks from his wallet. Lisbon frowned then reminded herself they _had_ worked the case and _were_ still FBI – technically 'active FBI on hiatus.'

The door opened to a dim interior lit by small, grimy windows. Jane wrinkled his nose at the faint malodor.

"Keller Sr. was desiccated skin over bone, clothed and propped up in that little room with the water heater," she pointed. "The smell is decomposing blood. Keller Jr. dabbed it on the body to 'bind the spirit.'" She looked disgusted.

Jane nodded, looking around. He made a circuit of the room, noticing nails loosely driven into the tabletop from carpentry projects, photos, books, the water heater, a small fridge with bottled water, and chewing gum wrappers in the trash. He flicked the light switches on and off in the main room and the side room that had housed the corpse.

Lisbon eyed the concrete walls and narrow windows set near the ceiling. The metal door had a double lock that required a key to enter or exit. She waited silently, stomach churning as she imagined Jane trapped with the insane killer. When Jane stopped and looked her way she said grimly, "No way you could escape."

"Focus on the man not the setting," Jane said mildly, tapping his lips. "I would have played the psychic angle, kept him talking. I'd get rid of the cuffs and set up an explosion to disable him."

"How?"

Patiently, "Unless I found something easier, I'd pry up a nail to jimmy the handcuffs. The lights work and the gas water heater is lit. Keller had the keys with him since it's a double-keyed lock. Disable him, get the key and run."

"Except you had a concussion. And he'd just let you get loose?"

" _Minor_ concussion – excuses any bobbles in my psychic reading. Get him to leave so I could shuck the cuffs." His eyes sparkled with pleasure at solving the puzzle. "Blow out the pilot light, stick a wad of gum on the bulb in the room with the corpse. What happens when I get him to check on his father's spirit or some such nonsense?"

Slowly, "He'd turn on the light. The bulb would shatter because of the gum."

"Very good. Propane gas plus electric arc and – voila! Explosion. Keller's disabled. I get away."

"Geez, Jane. Out of the frying pan! You'd be in that explosion too!" She shuddered remembering Malibu.

"Hey." Jane draped an arm over her shoulders. "Not saying it's ideal. Just possible."

She look askance. "I vote no kidnapping in the first place."

Jane locked the door and they stepped into the sunlight and clean air. Lisbon's hand stopped him. Intensely, " _Promise_ you'll work only with me. Or the team," the only team that deserved the label – her old CBI unit.

"Lisbon, don't you think–"

"– _Promise_ , Jane."

He rarely made promises. He assessed possibilities, limitations, effects intended or not. He caught her gaze. _Deal breaker._ He swallowed and chose. "I promise. Unless an emergency makes it impossible."

Her eyes narrowed. "An 'emergency.'"

He exhaled in frustration at being pinned down. "I will do whatever's required if you or anyone I consider family is in danger." He said grudgingly, "Otherwise, yeah, I'll only work if one of you is in the mix."

Lisbon's expression became even more determined, "Holding you to it. And don't think I'll forget."

 **San Antonio**

Lisbon parked at the Alamo historical site after an easy hour-and-a-half drive from Austin. Jane stretched, back stiff from sitting in one position too long. They wandered around the historic Alamo Mission chapel and the Long Barracks museum. Lisbon satisfied her curiosity before Jane. She waited on a bench under a tree rather than rush him, repeatedly reminding herself that this was supposed to be relaxing – a vacation even. He finally appeared and sat beside her.

"Done?"

He nodded. "Always wanted to see this."

"Because?"

He shrugged. "I read about the Alamo in a comic book–"

"–Patrick Jane read comic books?"

"As a _kid_ , Lisbon." She nudged him companionably with her knee and he continued. "They changed history."

She tilted her head. "So?"

He looked into the distance, unfocused. "Celebrates the individual." He shrugged with false diffidence. "Lots of examples. An east Indian Ramanujan made mathematical discoveries in the '20's that are helping explain black holes today. He prevailed despite prejudice and no credentials. ... A black messman on the USS West Virginia manned an anti-aircraft gun during the Pearl Harbor attack. Brought down several enemy planes."

Puzzled, "That changed history?"

"Shattered racial barriers in the navy."

She cocked her head. Tentatively, "Patriotic?"

"About some things. Why not?"

Suddenly feeling awkward, "A little surprising." Cautiously, "I thought carnies don't connect to regular society, much less government."

He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "My father and Pete come from a long line of Irish Showmen and Travellers. Alex only talked about making money. Pete and other carnies told me stories about life in the old country–"

Curiosity had prompted Lisbon to look up "Showman" after Jane's description of his father in the Schneiderman case. Though Jane had referred to himself that way over the years, that was the first time she realized it was more than simple description. That led her to information about the Irish Travellers, a nomadic, insular cultural group marginalized and shunned by regular society. Their culture persisted among emigres fleeing the Great Irish Famine. Parallels with carnies were plain: A precarious peripatetic lifestyle, poverty, and isolation from regular society. Negative stereotypes were inevitable, deserved or not. She blinked and tuned back into their conversation.

"-didn't fare too badly in Ireland or the UK, but European Romani were killed or worked to death by the Nazis. Some were friends or distant relatives."

"That's how you knew about Defiance in the Schneiderman case."

He nodded. "Carnies appreciate American freedom and safety. No place is perfect but people on the margins do better here than a lot of places. At least now." He cleared his throat and straightened. "Time to get going."

She nodded and pulled the itinerary from her bag. "Six hours to the Big Bend National Park." They stopped for lunch first. To Lisbon's surprised amusement, Jane insisted they stop to buy hiking boots, hats, and canteens before leaving San Antonio.

 **Big Bend National Park**

Lisbon wearily set the brake and switched off the ignition. It was long after they left the interstate, long past sundown. Wending their way to the reserved park cabin had stretched six hours into over seven.

"Didn't realize the back roads would take so long."

"Yeah."

Jane had been uncharacteristically quiet. She knew why when the dome light came on. His lips were pressed thin and his forehead was furrowed in pain. She hurriedly opened the cabin door. Jane got out and gingerly stretched. He brought in their suitcases, setting them down with a sigh.

Frowning, "Geez, Jane. _Say something_ next time. We could have stopped!"

"No where to stop. Would only make it longer." They moved their suitcases to stands and rummaged for toiletries and night clothes. "Mind if I shower first?" At her "Go 'head" he disappeared into the bathroom, then stepped back to grab his muscle relaxant and pain meds.

Lisbon pulled off her shoes and puttered around. She popped a coffee pod in the machine and was relieved to notice the pods of tea. _Jane'll diss the tea but at least we won't be driving around at midnight trying to find a store. Speaking of driving, since when does Jane suffer in silence?_

Lisbon showered and they turned in. They contentedly spooned for the body heat in the cool spring night, bringing their first day of freedom to a close.

"Lisbon." She twitched at the rush of cold air and pulled the covers higher. "Lisbon!"

"Wha– whazzit?"

"C'mon, get up. You have to see this."

She rolled onto her back and grumbled. "Really, Jane?"

"Yes. C'mon." He reinforced his insistence by waving fresh coffee past her face. She reluctantly shook herself awake, sat up and reached for the cup. Barely half way through he slid the cup from her hand – "Hey!" – and grasped her arm to urge her up. She grudgingly stood and let him wrap her in the complimentary bath robe. She slid into slippers and he guided her out onto the porch. He turned them to face east. She pulled the robe tight against dampness and chill.

Dim pre-dawn light painted the world in ghostly grays. Sparse trees and bushes were radiographs against a brightening sky.

"Geez, Jane. Not even dawn yet," she yawned, freezing and still sleepy.

"Just wait," he breathed softly next to her ear. He pulled her back against his warm chest and folded his arms around her. Pink slowly suffused the drab eastern sky.

"What–" She stopped. Brilliant rays shot over the hills, shadowing the near side until the sun inched higher and– "It's beautiful!"

Spring rains and the warming ground triggered botanical imperatives. Plants sprouted and blossomed in days, exploiting every molecule of moisture in the arid land. Amazed, she stepped forward, drawn to the dazzling, back-lit blanket of yellow and blue, red and purple wild flowers. They stood silent in rapt appreciation. In Austin, springtime had barely registered against work and the urban setting.

A shiver reminded Jane she wore only the robe and an over-sized tee. They reluctantly turned and went in. He rubbed the goose bumps from her arms. She turned and mirrored his smile.

"Always wanted to see the desert bloom."

"I had no idea, Jane."

"Let's hike today! Scenery's s'posed to be magnificent." He motioned vaguely toward a brochure on the table.

Eyebrows raised in disbelief, "You're seriously gonna go hiking?"

Annoyed, "Hiked all the time on the island. I'm not anti-exercise."

"Forgive me for noticing the ninety-nine percent of the time you spent on the SCU couch–"

"– _My_ couch," he corrected. "I exercised. Sometimes."

"When?"

Expressionlessly, "When I needed sleep."

"Oh." _When you were desperate. You were exhausted most of the time._

Enthusiasm returning, "Anyway, up for a hike?"

"After a good breakfast." She stepped away to make more coffee to warm up. "Weather?"

"Perfect. High of 80. No rain."

Hours later they mounted the last, steep section of trail and paused. To her relief, Jane's back was fine so long as he avoided twisting. They turned slowly, looking out over the world laid at their feet. After checking for snakes, they gratefully sank down on a sun-warmed rock outcrop.

"Can see for miles," Lisbon said, still a trifle breathless.

"Clean air, low humidity." Jane pointed to the silver Rio Grande ribbon snaking its way below. "Gorgeous." He leaned forward and peered. Lisbon tracked his gaze to the distant river. Black dots moved across the surface. "Animals? People?"

Eyebrows knit, she speculated, "If not animals, illegal aliens or they'd use the legal crossing."

He frowned. " _Tell me_ you're not going all FBI to apprehend them or something."

She shook her head. "I assume Border Patrol has it covered. Too far away anyhow."

Jane relaxed against the rock. He reveled in the wild beauty, gaze returning to the river as the last dot disappeared into trees on the US side. "Porous borders invite drug- and human-trafficking. But I'd cross too to escape poverty and violence."

"Why have borders if we don't enforce them?" She sighed. "I know most are just trying for a better life. But with terrorism, we can't ignore the illegals."

Puzzled, "Terrorism?"

Bristling at his apparent challenge, "What would you call it?"

"Call what? What are you talking about?"

Her searching glance detected no deception, no mocking. "Mexican drug cartels are helping Middle East terrorists across our southern border. Yeah, there are visa overstays and people radicalized through the Internet. Doesn't mean we can ignore potential terrorists sneaking in."

He blinked in surprise. "Since when?"

Lisbon sat straighter. "For years." Slowly, "Jane, what do you know about terrorist attacks in the US and Europe?"

Taken aback, "Well, 9-11 of course. And Fort Hood. I, uh, I didn't pay much attention after that."

For minutes the silence was broken only by the fitful breeze and hawks calling. _'After that.' Timothy Carter. Vegas. And 2,700 people he shook hands with. McAllister. Venezuela. Jesus._ She tilted her head. "The Boston marathon bombing? Charlie Hebdo and the Paris theater attacks? San Bernadino?"

He shook his head slightly. "No English language news in the island village."

"The Orlando, Brussels, and Nice attacks happened after you came back," she pointed out.

Relieved, "I recall those. I was kind of focused on Blake though."

She ran her hand down his arm. "Sorry, didn't mean to accuse. It's just – well, terrorism is metastasizing. I thought you'd know even in South America."

Expression troubled, "Illegals from the southern border committed attacks in the US?"

"Not so far. Our borders are vulnerable though." She shrugged. "Never mind."

"Ah." Grateful, he vowed to look it up when he had the chance.

Late afternoon found them pleasantly tired and ready for less strenuous enjoyment. At a visitor's center they watched an orientation film – whose warnings about bears and cougars shocked Lisbon ("The name 'Panther Junction Visitor's Center' could be a clue, detective," Jane whispered with a grin). They browsed the fossils, learned about the natural and cultural history, and looked over a 3-D model of the park in comfort. Lisbon joked that they should have walked the short nature trail before hiking so she'd know what she was looking at. They dined at a nearby restaurant and were back at the cabin by mid-evening.

Lisbon exited the bathroom brushing her damp hair. She paused by the bed and nudged Jane's foot with her knee.

Without opening his eyes, "Y-e-e-e-e-s?"

"Too early to turn in. Movie?" Even their simple, remote cabins had satellite reception.

"Nature? Science? Animal anything?" he yawned.

"How about one involving actual, you know, _people_?"

Neutrally, "If you wish. You choose."

She tossed the hairbrush on a chair and lay down beside him. "What have you got against movies with people?" She idly traced patterns on his chest.

He made a face, then rolled onto his side. "The tells are distracting," he explained as he toyed with her hair.

"You read the actors in the movies?"

"It's automatic." Her surprise encouraged him to continue. "Unless actors are immersed in the roles, their tells are inconsistent with on-screen action." He chuckled, "Often unintentionally hilarious. –Hard to predict if I'll like a movie."

She looked at him speculatively. "Foreign films?"

"Very good, Lisbon." He rolled onto his back, his embrace bringing her to rest against his chest. "If the culture is different enough, tells are less distracting." He shifted to settle her more comfortably.

"Thought tells are universal?"

"Oh, they are. But behavior is overlaid with cultural norms." His voice rumbled pleasantly against her chest. "You've heard this example. –In some cultures people of inferior social status look downward as a mark of respect. Unlike here, looking straight-on is considered brazen. Insolent."

"So?" She punctuated her question with a kiss on the side of his mouth.

"Different norms are a kind of 'noise,'" he said between kisses. "Harder to read body language, easier to enjoy the movie."

"Now I know." _A decade and I'm still tripping over new quirks. Huh._

"I know a better way to spend the evening." He clicked off the lamp.

 **** M-rated ****

He found the hem of her shirt, the feather touch triggering a shiver of desire. Impatient, she pulled cami and sports bra over her head and onto the floor. Her hands slipped under his tee, petting the planes of his chest and thumbing his nipples. He helpfully raised his arms as she divested him of shirt. He filled his hands with the exciting mounds of her breasts, traced the subtle bumps of ribs and spine ending with his fingers slipped under her waistband. They rolled to the side to attack buttons and flies. Her shorts and panties disappeared with one caress. She tugged his shorts and boxers off over his erection.

A muffled question about his sprained back was swallowed by kisses, nibbles and fondling. Languid became torrid – nipping, stroking, teasing. Breathing fast he knelt before her and guided himself to her entrance, barely remembering to check if she was wet. One strong thrust sheathed him inside – slick, tight ecstasy. He set a punishing pace. Swept along, her hips rose to meet every thrust with legs wrapping his waist to deepen penetration. Unbearable tension broke as she came with his next rough thrust, clenching around him. Her orgasm drew him over the edge and he came with a half shout, half sob. Boneless and enervated, he muttered and rolled off so she could breathe. Recovering, she nestled against his side and pulled up the covers. He was fast asleep. Just before dropping off she realized what he'd muttered: Free at last.

 **** End of M-rated ****

Lisbon stirred at the loss of Jane's warmth alongside her. They'd fallen asleep so early that waking in the middle of the night was inevitable. Not bothering with a light she padded to the bathroom to relieve herself. After donning robe and shoes, she slipped outside and joined the dark shape leaning against the railing.

Stars blazed in the infinite depths. Violently beautiful. Overwhelming.

His voice startled her. "Puts us in perspective, doesn't it?"

In awe, "How can you _not_ believe in God?"

He exhaled, condensed breath faintly visible in the starlight. "Humility." She snorted. "We're like one-celled animals explaining the universe from a puddle."

"You're making my argument."

"Astronomers say most stars have planets. What conceit to think we can know the how and why of creation, that we're the point of all this."

"Faith."

Wryly, "Not my strong suit." He allowed for the possibility out of respect. "I can't say there _isn't_ God. I just don't know that there is." _Not after Angie and Charlie..._ He draped an arm around her and changed the subject. "The Lowell Observatory's in Flagstaff. Obsolete, of course, but could be fun."

"How'd you get interested in astronomy?"

"Some clients had observatories. Neat that individuals can get good images."

"Something you want to do?" He shrugged. "You're free now. What do you want to do?"

"We agreed to start an agency in Sacramento," the seeming non sequitur achingly relevant.

She cocked her head at his deflection. "Not what I asked. What do you _want_?"

He fell silent for a bit. "Damned if I know. Question was irrelevant for 13 years."

"I, I thought after McAllister–"

"Only now am I free to choose where I live, what I do and with whom." Slowly, "I enjoyed solving crimes at the CBI. Returning to Sacramento and working with you feel right. Beyond that – I don't know."

She gave him an encouraging hug. "That's a start. We'll figure it out." After another long look at the sky, they went inside to snuggle and doze till morning.


	2. Chapter 2 - California

**Chapter 2: California**

 **San Francisco**

Cho closed the door and flipped the light switch. He took her wrap, laid it on a chair and shed his own light jacket.

"Something to drink?" he asked Elise, motioning her toward the couch. When she nodded he disappeared into the kitchen. Looking back around the corner, "Wine? Pouilly-Fumé."

Pleased that he remembered. That he bothered. "Yes, thanks."

She browsed the sleek, modern living room and appreciated his good taste. Not for the first time did she marvel at the contradiction of a former gang banger with serious aesthetic sensibilities and interest in culture. _Or maybe it makes perfect sense..._ She paused at a corner shelving unit, straightening in wonder. Hesitant, she stroked a small onyx eagle figurine, wings spread in flight with one tip brushing the ground. The beauty of the finely detailed carving was accentuated by dark brown veining against a creamy background, the patterns mimicking feathers and lending it motion. She turned at the click of glass against wood.

"You kept it."

He nodded. "'Course."

They settled on the couch. Cho handed her the wineglass and took his bottle of craft beer. He sat comfortably alongside with his arm thrown above her shoulders on the couch back. After his mother's mild stroke five months ago, he'd relocated to the San Francisco FBI office immediately following the round-up of Blake leaders. Elise Chay and her sister Alyssa had stopped by to welcome him back when he moved into his apartment. Elise mentioned she would be returning to Sacramento.

"The exhibit was amazing. Loved it. Dinner, too." They'd spent the day browsing a collection of classical calligraphy, books, and artwork from several Asian cultures. It spoke to their heritage and to Cho's appreciation of classical literature. Though out of practice now, years ago he had read some of the Korean works in the original.

"Better with you," he complimented. "Both."

She smiled, "There had to be an upside to all the museums Mom dragged me to." Elise's US Army officer father had fallen in love and married when he was stationed in South Korea. Army brats Elise and younger sister Alyssa lived in Asia till their teens.

Cho and Elise had always been as comfortable sharing silence as sharing conversation. Eventually, "You're back," question implied. He took a mouthful of beer.

"To work for the AG."

"Good career move?"

Elise nodded. "Exposure to movers and shakers." She looked hopeful, wistful. "Hard work, a little luck and maybe I'll have a shot at AG some day." She already had a fine reputation as a prosecutor. Her career goals required breaking into the political establishment.

Cho nodded noncomittally. He was in no hurry to broach the ragged rupture of their relationship four years earlier. "Tell me about your position."

"AG liaison to the DA's. Set priorities for prosecutions. There'll be high profile issues to research with the new administration in Washington. Maybe some lawsuits contesting new Federal legislation and Justice Department enforcement." She sipped her wine. Drank in his sorely missed features. _Impassive. Except to me._ "And you, Kimball?"

He tipped his head. "My SA McMerrick retires in two weeks. I'll head that FBI unit."

"You like the FBI?"

He nodded. "Important cases, more resources. Opportunity in Frisco and Sacramento."

She swirled her wine. "You came back because of your mom. –Permanent?"

"Here indefinitely. Want to keep Su and Lee from repeating my mistakes." Cho had reconnected with teenaged cousins who faced the same lousy choices he had in the shabby, gang-ridden area. There were younger cousins coming up too.

Directly, "San Francisco is close to Sacramento – close enough." She closed her eyes, and relaxed against the couch letting her head rest on his arm. Flawless skin glowed in the soft light. Her lips glistened with wine. Cho leaned closer then brought himself up short. He leaned forward to set his beer on the table.

Softly, "What's that matter if you don't stay?" He couldn't help adding, "You left for a job in LA." He didn't need to say 'me.'

She sat up and faced him. "Kimball, I _begged_ you to transfer to the CBI's LA office."

"I had obligations."

A crease appeared between her eyebrows. "I understand about family - hoped maybe someday..." With a hint of bitterness, "You chose work."

"The SCU–"

"– _Colleagues!_ " She used the Korean word for strictly co-workers. Not family. Not even friends. "You chose _work – career –_ same as me. How can you hold it against me?"

Cho took a deep breath, floored at her profound misunderstanding. "I stayed _despite_ career."

Eyes liquid with unshed tears, "Then why?"

"Rigs, Lisbon, Van Pelt, Jane. Family every way but blood. Red John or Blake could have hurt them. Killed them."

"So _you_ had to stay? They'd have hired another agent if you left."

"I had to stay." He paused then added, "I saw guilt eat Jane alive for a decade. Couldn't risk it."

"That's over." Her face crumpled in heart-breaking longing, "We could be together now."

Intensely, " _Will you stay in the area?_ "

Desperate, "Maybe. Once your cousins are on their own, after your mom–?"

Cho breathed deeply, said nothing. His mom's life would be in the way of Elise's dreams. And if he was lucky enough to again have a team as close as the SCU, what then?

She looked away. Breaking the painful silence she said, "I should go."

They rose. Elise reached for her purse and Cho gave her the wrap from the chair. She walked toward the front door.

"Elise." She paused but didn't turn around. He engulfed her in a hug from behind. "If you change your mind..."

She whispered, "I'm sorry, Kimball."

Cho closed the door softly. He didn't watch as she drove away.

 **The US Southwest**

Jane walked out of the bathroom after a shower, tucking in his shirt. Already dressed, Lisbon sat leafing through the Big Bend National Park brochure.

"What do you want to do today, Jane?"

"Choose a couple from the dog-eared pages."

She glanced up. "There are a bunch. Why two?"

"All there's time for. We're s'posed to drive to New Mexico tonight."

She perused her schedule with a frown. "Two is arbitrary, doesn't make sense. –I mean, when would we be back?"

"Your call." He turned to pop a pod of tea in the beverage brewer. "Coffee?"

"Mmhm," she said absently. A few minutes later Jane handed her a coffee and joined her at the table with his tea. She riffled through the brochure again, noting a half dozen things she wanted to see. "Jane." He looked up. "I know we've gotta be in Sacramento in a few weeks. But it makes more sense to be flexible, don't you think?" She folded the schedule and stuffed it in her bag.

A brilliant smile broke over his face. "Fine by me." He bent to study the brochure with her.

They left Big Bend two days later and hop-scotched their way across the Southwest.

Carlsbad Caverns was the first pause in their wanderings. Its eerie beauty was other-worldly to Midwest flat-lander Lisbon. They toured the varied caves, some as bold as a hall of mountain kings, others a delicate and ethereal work of lacy stone. Lisbon periodically shivered from the constant chill underground temperature ... or maybe it was the thought of thousands of tons of crushing earth above. To Lisbon's dismay, Jane timed the end of their self-guided tour to coincide with the sundown flight of hundreds of thousands of bats and grinned at her pique. In bed that night she reluctantly admitted she'd never been on vacations as a kid and learned it was the same for Jane. They ended the night with sex, something that then happened more nights than not. Jane made sure of it.

They skipped Roswell. Lisbon passed because it creeped her out. As for Jane, he despaired of learning anything real about – choose one – a relentlessly commercialized scam or an actual event so terrifying that authorities steadfastly denied it even occurred for fifty years and counting.

They slid down 40-foot sand dunes at the White Sands National Monument. The sandy slopes reminded Lisbon of winter toboggan rides on man-made hills in Chicago. Only warmer. When they left Jane gave their sand disks to a family which had neglected to buy any before entering the park.

In Albuquerque Jane disdained the casinos, saying Nevada offered better gaming. Lisbon reluctantly agreed to a hot air balloon ride and loved it beyond all expectations. That night Jane mentioned they were falling behind schedule. Lisbon tore up the schedule.

Heading north, they walked through ancient ruins of Aztec and Pueblo Indians. The weight of silence and time was relieved by absurd arguments about how they would have fared in ancient times. Lisbon would have been a perfect warrior, except for being female. They agreed Jane could only have been a shaman, medicine man, or whatever the equivalent was for those peoples and times.

They toured the Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona and Jane waxed eloquent about vast tropical inland seas in which sediment replaced the organic structures of fallen trees. Lisbon simply enjoyed colorful patterns literally set in stone. That night Lisbon noticed her cell phone was dead and charged it for the first time in days. Eight messages from Van Pelt popped up and Lisbon's call was met with a relieved, "Thank God!" When Van Pelt had called, the Austin FBI would say only say that Lisbon and Jane were no longer with that office. Unconcerned, Jane admitted he'd simply seen no reason to keep his cell phone on. After that, Lisbon turned hers on only if they needed an app or when they stopped for the night. Surprisingly, she didn't miss it.

The Grand Canyon area captivated them for days. At Jane's urging Lisbon agreed – once satisfied there was no risk of flash floods – and they spent a day following Indian guides through fantastic ocher and gold slot canyons near Page. Over eons water had carved lovely, fluid abstract shapes along channels often so narrow they had to walk single file. A brilliant ribbon of blue sky arched dozens of feet above.

At the Grand Canyon, Jane horrified Lisbon by standing, perfectly at ease, a scant foot from the cliff's edge. He later teased her about her confidence in man's designs. She was totally comfortable walking 70 feet out over the canyon on the glass Skywalk, some 4,000 feet above the canyon floor. The cliff had been there untold millennia in contrast with a few decades for the Skywalk. She dryly countered that the Grand Canyon itself was irrefutable proof of the impermanence even of rock. After lunch at a park restaurant, she pointed to picture of a fit young man wearing sneakers and holding a bottle of water. That over-confident, under-prepared young man was the poster child for visitors who invited disaster when they tried to hike the canyon rim to floor. Lisbon told Jane he could have modeled that poster. He had no comeback.

The Hoover Dam was predictably impressive, as much for its speedy four-year construction 85 years ago as for the sheer magnitude of the project. The shrunken Lake Mead impressed them in a different way by graphically illustrating the impact of drought in this desert land. Jane opined that water would remain a problem without a comprehensive pricing and trading system for water rights. Lisbon was surprised he even _had_ an opinion.

They had to pass through Las Vegas.

Without a word they drove fifty miles past the luxury and glitz to stay at a modest motel in a forgettable town. Even after five years' time bitter memories lingered. Their coupling that night was more catharsis of pain, regret and shame than affirmation of life.

A tampon wrapper was in the trash when Jane got up to use the bathroom that night.

 **Austin**

Senior Agent Daniels walked away after announcing the names of the two agents who would replace Lisbon and Jane. Fischer and Wylie exchanged glances.

Once Daniels was out of earshot Wylie asked Fischer, "Know them?"

She shook her head. "Know _of_ them. Nothing bad." She swallowed. "But nothing great, either. Wait and see."

They had formed an unlikely bond after first Cho and then Lisbon and Jane departed. Wylie deferred to her greater depth and breadth of experience; she admired his technological prowess. Pike had hired Daniels and now Daniels hired replacements for Lisbon and Jane. Their fait accompli approach spoke volumes. The demoralizing truth about their new SAC and SA was sinking in.

"I've only been on this one team after the tech pool. Do I just miss the SCU guys? Or is there really a difference in, uh, in quality?"

"Second-raters–" Fischer paused then started over. Carefully oblique, "In my experience, first-raters surround themselves with other first-raters. That's who you want if you're any good."

Wylie glumly returned to his computer search for their current case. Fischer went off in search of coffee, wondering how big a mistake she'd made in not following Abbott. ... If, maybe, she should do something about it.

 **Sacramento**

"It was your turn to get the kids ready, Wayne," Van Pelt said heatedly once Ben had been dropped off at school and Taylor at daycare. She stopped short nearly having run the stoplight.

"Sorry, Grace. I got in at 2 after that take down. Didn't mean to oversleep."

She took a deep breath and tamped down her anger. "Scrambling for child care is killing us when work is more ad hoc than routine. What are we gonna do?"

"Look, we make good money. Hire a nanny or something?"

They pulled into the CIB parking garage. "I'm late for my own meeting. Talk tonight, okay?" They exchanged quick kisses and hustled off, Rigsby to the underground corridor linking the garage and CIB building and Van Pelt to the elevator bank.

 **San Francisco**

 ***Bzzzz* *Bzzzz***

Cho reached for his cell on the nightstand. "Cho." _4:12 am and a Sacramento number. Case?_ He didn't recognize the number.

"Gabe Mancini. Can you be at my office in two hours?"

 _Mancini?_ "Yes. Why?"

Mancini drew a breath. Soberly, "Agent McMerrick's dead. Heart attack."

Cho set aside his reaction to the news to refocus on the conversation. "Why's Sacramento concerned about a San Francisco field office?"

"I'll explain when we meet."

"Will, uh–" still groggy, it took a moment for the name of his SAC to surface, "–Agent Jorgenson be there–"

"Yes. My office, 6 am."

"Okay."

He'd just have time to shower before getting on the road. The regret hit him as he showered. Though he'd only worked for Mac for a few months, he'd liked the man. _Pity he didn't make it to retirement. And why the hell's Mancini involved?_

Cho was slated for promotion to Mac's position, which would leave two vacancies. He started thinking about who would inform the others on Mac's team – _my team how soon?_ – then wondered if that was the reason for the before-dawn call. _Have something in place when Jorgenson announces the bad news?_

Cho knocked and entered at Mancini's, "Come." Mancini nodded a greeting and motioned him to sit. Jorgenson hadn't arrived yet.

"Bob will be here soon." Anticipating Cho's question, "We'll wait to get started." He rose, "Coffee?"

Jorgenson had just arrived when they got back to Mancini's office from the break room. Jorgenson and Cho settled in chairs facing Mancini's desk. Cho nodded a greeting and gave his boss the extra coffee he'd made.

"Bob, thanks for coming over," he glanced outside, "in the middle of the night. I'm sorry to hear about Agent McMerrick. Sac FBI worked cases with him a few times."

"Thank you. What's this about, Gabe?"

Mancini leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "The new administration is beefing up homeland security, expecting terrorism to get worse before it gets better. Washington wants a special task force created to help cover the West coast, California especially."

Jorgenson frowned. "All our offices work terrorism. How's this change things?"

"Washington's too distant. Individual field offices are too decentralized, not specialized enough. Our Mexican border, long Pacific coast, economic importance and diverse population make us a prime target and a key buffer for the rest of the US. The new task force will coordinate anti-terrorism efforts all along the West coast. It'll also develop close ties with all the Homeland agencies and personnel."

"And I'm here because?"

"I want Cho to head the task force. McMerrick's death is a bad break, but I wanted to broach this before Cho staffs up his unit. If Cho wants the job, what do you need to make this work, Bob?"

Jorgenson looked at Cho. "You interested?"

"Yes. Depending."

Jorgenson turned back to Mancini. "You're not taking any positions, right? You just want my blessing on stealing my agent?" Mancini nodded. "Okay. Then I want better coordination on cross district cases. Sac keeps stepping on our toes."

"You've got it. Call me if things don't improve."

"Oh, I will," Jorgenson said with a smile. He rose, "I have things to do so I'll leave you to it. Cho, tell me if you're taking the position by 8 so I know before talking to Mac's team."

Cho nodded. "Yes, boss." He looked at both men. "If I accept but it falls through, I still have the SA position for Mac's unit?"

"–Yes." "–It won't fall through."

Jorgenson nodded, "Agents," and left. The door closed softly behind him.

"Here." Mancini handed Cho a description of the purpose and duties of the task force and a job description for the lead position. Cho read through silently and laid them on the desk.

"I'd report to you with a team of five to 10 agents–"

"–Depends on how much work it turns out to be. At least five."

"–And my team would be lead when working with other field offices?"

"Yes, but I want those interactions to be as cooperative as possible." Cho nodded. "Your position would be SA but one pay-grade higher. You'd form the liaisons with Washington and field agents working terrorism, but I'd want to be kept in the loop." After a moment, "Questions?"

Cho looked at him impassively, "Why do you want _me_? Didn't go smoothly back in the CBI days." He and Mancini had put that behind him when he relocated to California, but _working for_ Mancini was different.

Sourly, "It didn't. Turned out Teresa's SCU was right ... about a lot of things." Mancini met Cho's gaze. "You're the right man for this job. You're a good agent. Your plan got the Blake leaders. And you've already worked with Dennis Abbott. Abbott is the key man in Washington on this, just under the Director."

"Does Abbott know I might head the Sac task force?"

"He recommended you." Mancini's grin was matched by Cho's slight quirk of lips and glint of humor.

Cho extended his hand. "Thank you for the opportunity. When do I start?"


	3. Chapter 3 - Changes

**Chapter 3: Changes**

 **San Francisco, Thursday**

Cho fought distraction as he drove back from the Mancini meeting. A jumble of thoughts clamored for attention until he disciplined himself to focus on just this morning. Thankfully, Jorgenson'd offered to break the news of Mac's death to Cho's team. Mac's long-time friend and partner Davis would be hit hard. It had been no secret Cho was slated to head the team when Mac retired. His change of plans meant more disruption. And how would he respond if asked about the terrorism task force?

Cho's first stop was Jorgenson's office. Jorgenson looked up from jotting notes by hand on a pad and waved him in. The top line said, "Mac." _No wonder he looks grim._

"Cho. Was waiting for you. Decision?" He motioned him to sit.

"I've accepted the task force position. Mancini wants me to start a week from Monday."

"Where do you stand on the Cummings investigation?"

"Arrests made, finishing up paperwork." He frowned, "Not sure what Mac had left to do."

"Don Davis can handle whatever's left. You can transfer soon as you're ready." Cho nodded his thanks. "Do you want a word with your team first or–"

He shook his head. "I only knew Mac a few months. Better they hear it from you."

Jorgenson glanced at his pad. "I'll tell your team privately. Assembly later for everyone. Most will have heard through the grapevine by then." Cho nodded. "Know how you'll explain taking Mancini's position?" Cho nodded again. Cho thought to leave then waited, realizing Jorgenson wasn't done.

Jorgenson sipped his coffee, grimacing at the now cold brew. He examined Cho critically. "For the record, I'm damn sorry to lose you. Mac spoke well of you and he wasn't easy to please."

The corners of Cho's mouth quirked up: A bittersweet accolade considering the occasion. He remembered to ask, "Boss, while I'm here can I talk with your agents who have worked terrorism?"

Jorgenson smiled slightly. "Of course. Smart." He sighed, "Quid quo pro. Know any good agents ready for team lead?" The clean-up of Blake Association corruption had removed or tainted a swath of experienced FBI agents in California. Those left were nearing retirement and uninterested, or were unsuited to head a team, or were too green. It would be a headache for years to come.

"Not offhand. I'll think about it."

Jorgenson waved his hand. "Get on with it, then."

"Yes, sir."

The rest of the day was a blur.

Jorgenson called Mac's three agents into his office to break the news about Mac and Cho. Davis and the rookie were dazed and depressed. To the good, neither begrudged Cho the task force opportunity and wished him luck. By noon, Davis had decided to resign and retire. The rookie privately asked Cho to be considered for a position on his task force. Her face fell when he explained that his flexibility in hiring someone so green would depend on his other hires. She rallied to reiterate her interest, emphasize the excellent assessments she'd received at Quantico and from Mac, and state her determination to work hard and do well. Cho promised to keep her in mind. He didn't say so, but her pluck had increased her chances.

Cho talked with some San Francisco agents who had worked terrorism cases and scheduled times to meet with the rest. By afternoon, he was elbow deep in electronic forms and paperwork for the new position from the Sac FBI office. Mancini forwarded the applications received to date for the task force positions. Cho knew how he'd spend his evening.

Somehow he found time to inform the leasing company he'd be moving and subletting. He also scheduled a moving van. At home, once he tired of reading applications, he re-taped the moving boxes that were piled in the spare room until he had time to take them to the dumpster.

 **Pahrump, NV, Thursday**

Jane rose before dawn to relieve himself, still tired after a long day and their desperate coupling in the bitter shadow of Las Vegas. It took a moment to register the import of the tampon wrapper in the trash. _Almost a year since we stopped contraception. Damn_.

Lisbon wasn't in the room. He pulled aside the drapes. _Car's here._ He dressed and exited. A sleepy night clerk was alone in the lobby. Jane crossed the black expanse of parking lot to the brightly-lit 24-hour breakfast chain, the only place open within walking distance. A glance through the windows showed she wasn't inside. Then he caught the scent of cinnamon.

Lisbon didn't stir when Jane joined her on the bench at the side of the restaurant. He stilled the impulse to gather her in his arms and soothe her disappointment. _Not yet._ They sat in silence, staring sightlessly into new moon darkness. Stars shone brightly, remote and cold.

"You didn't say anything about your back."

Jane frowned, failed to make the connection.

"You went along with my stupid schedule. Why?"

 _Oh._ "Well ... you have the big loss. No more gigantic bureaucracy of steely-eyed agents carrying big, scary guns. It was the least I could do."

She ignored his attempt to lighten the moment. "You're going along with starting an agency too." She half-turned to him. "Everything's been 'going along' since Austin. The one thing you do want–" she took a breath, "–it seems I can't give you. Maybe with someone else..." She couldn't finish the sentence. Starlight glinted off unshed tears. Voice devoid of emotion, "We can't build a life on your feeling _obligated_. You don't owe me anything."

Jane blinked in pain and exhaled a sigh. Quietly, "No, not 'anything'–"

She gasped–

"– _everything_." Jane roughly pulled her close, desperate to ease her fears. After a moment she melted against him. He whispered, "Someone I can trust, someone strong. Someone at peace with herself. Someone better than me, who knows me at my worst and still loves me." She turned her face against his chest. A years-old wound healed that instant.

He held her until soundless shudders abated. He gently gripped her shoulders and drew her away. Ducking to catch her gaze, Jane tilted her chin up with a finger. "I love you, want to spend my life with you. The rest will work out." She nodded slowly, allowing herself to believe, to trust. He rose, pulling her up with him. They made their way to the hotel, to their bed and sleep.

The next morning both resolutely acted normally. By early morning they were heading north along Nevada's western boundary. It was mile upon mile of desolate desert on roads bordering military test sites and the abandoned, controversial Yucca Flats site for nuclear waste disposal. Lisbon drove, giving Jane time to peruse tourist attractions.

"Death Valley, Lisbon. Right here!"

She looked at him in disbelief. "First bat-filled caves that could collapse any second, then volcanoes–"

"– _dormant_ volcanoes–"

"–and dangerous canyons–"

"–all of which you loved–"

"–and now a place called _death_."

His plaintive, "I guess that's 'no' then?" failed to sway her.

"Better believe it, buster."

Conceding, "Meh. We've already seen lots of pretty, colored rock. –Next time?"

She blinked and frowned, "Next – oh," as she caught his grin.

Both were preoccupied, conversation was sparse. Halfway through the six-hour trip, eyes fixed on the highway, Lisbon asked out of the blue, "You meant what you said last night?" She'd shatter if he 'forgot.'

He stared out the passenger window. "Every word." _We have to end this ... these doubts._

"Oh." She swallowed. "Good."

He turned to face her. Quietly, "I meant it on the video too."

"Your wife–"

"–And you." He shrugged one shoulder, "I had to imply my wife for the case. The words equally suit you." Her breath caught at 'equally.' He flashed a grin, "Lisbon, Lisbon. You really think I _accidentally_ left that video frozen on that frame?"

Trembling inside she shook her head. Game, she managed, "Bite me." Her hand flicked his shoulder then was caught by him when she tried to tug it back. He laced fingers and squeezed gently.

Desert gave way to mountains and patchy forest and then mountains blanketed in forest. Although it would have been more direct, they eschewed the slow, tortuous state highways through the Sierra Nevada's in preference for the interstate between Reno and Sacramento. They stopped for lunch in Carson City before driving on to Reno.

Lisbon ventured, "Why Reno?"

"Nice town for gambling. Thought we could play a little."

"Hmph. Kinda pointless unless I could win enough to change my life–"

"–which I–"

She interrupted, "–which doesn't happen to ordinary mortals."

Irritatingly superior, "You're looking at it the wrong way."

"Exc-u-u-u-se me. So share your words of wisdom."

Eager to convince, "If you went to an amusement park you'd drop a few hundred, right?"

"Easily. Sky-high admission, $20 hotdogs, overpriced souvenirs," thinking back to the last time she'd taken her niece.

"Gambling losses are the price of casino entertainment. Better since you control the price. Better still, you can come out ahead."

She huffed with a grin, " _You_ could. I'm not lucky, can't count cards, don't read people, and God knows what else you do."

"You okay with hitting a few casinos today, maybe tomorrow?"

"If you stay out of trouble. I enjoy watching you."

"That's my Lisbon."

A while later she thought to ask, "Why did you borrow money to gamble in that James Meier case – the one with the severed hand? You could have gotten a cash advance from your credit card."

"Then the teller would have my name."

"So?"

"Casinos keep lists, even though it was ages since I'd been gambling. They don't like card-counters, you know."

"What about Reno, now I mean?"

"Lend me some money?" he grinned.

"You're terrible."

Jane chose the classiest hotel-casino in Reno for their stay. They registered and went up to their suite. After quick showers they dressed casually and headed out again. Jane warned that their first stop would be the cheesiest "Old West" theme casino she could imagine. She laughed out loud when they entered and found it so hokey it was fun. They left a few hours later. Buoyed by Jane's perspective, Lisbon focused on her enjoyment rather than the couple hundred she lost. Jane walked out thousands richer. She'd never admit it, but Jane's success quieted any monetary pangs she might have. They spent another few hours at a more conventional casino. Lisbon mainly enjoyed watching Jane again walk away thousands richer.

Back at their hotel-casino they strolled past up-scale shops in keeping with the establishment.

"Another way to make sure our money stays here," Lisbon observed.

"Of course." Jane guided her toward an expensive dress shop, "Let's follow the plan."

She pushed back, resisting. "Jane! I don't need a dress."

"Oh, you do. You'd feel out of place in casual clothes at dinner here." He had his suits but knew she had only casual and work clothes.

Her face crinkled in distress, "Can't we just eat at a chain?"

"Nope. We're on vacation, live a little. Now, let's see what dresses can do you justice, my dear."

Three-quarters of an hour later, "Can't decide which one to buy," she said, frowning with indecision. One was a low-cut, floaty, teal green number. The other was a more modest, winter-white sheath with a taupe chiffon-embellished neckline. She'd modeled both to Jane's obvious appreciation.

He fluidly rose and took both hangers. "We'll take these," he said, handing them to the saleswoman.

"Jane! That's six hundred dollars!" she whispered urgently as the woman walked off.

He turned to her. "I made over seven grand. A relatively small splurge, don't you think?" He followed the saleswoman.

"I, uh, I–" She trailed him, failing to think of a counter-argument.

"Where can she buy suitable shoes?" Jane asked as he paid cash. He left an extra c-note when the saleswoman directed them to another store in the complex. The dresses would be delivered to their suite within the hour.

To Jane's amusement, Lisbon found a pair of 3" strappy, lizard-skin sandals in taupe that would work with either dress. She glared, daring him to object but he spread his hands in surrender. He risked her wrath by adding a matching clutch at the last minute.

Two hours later the maitre d' seated them at a quiet table in the elegant restaurant. The teal fabric's subtle sheen brought out the green of her eyes. Jane looked impossibly handsome in a charcoal gray three-piece suit. Somehow he'd materialized black dress shoes and a white, French-cuff dress shirt complete with platinum cuff-links set with semi-precious stones. He radiated such ease and happiness she had to look away or lose her composure.

She settled into her chair and perused the menu. For once, up-scale didn't mean bird portions of odd foods more art than sustenance. Perplexed at choosing when everything sounded delicious, the prix fixe menu was no help. She didn't even know the fixed price as it must have been discretely posted at the maitre d' station. _Huh. Must be 'if you have to ask, you can't afford it.'_ Jane's amused smile said he read her perfectly. She threw him a half-hearted scowl then shrugged in acceptance. _Okay, free money._ She was beginning to appreciate how little cost mattered if every casino was a personal ATM as it was for Jane.

Jane was witty and knowledgeable and gently flattering. Lisbon relaxed into the moment, bantering and challenging. Thirteen harrowing years had somehow led to this perfect moment. They finished the leisurely dinner, only slightly affected by a stellar California wine. They strolled the lush, manicured grounds in still-warm evening air to settle their food.

"Let's sit," Jane suggested when they reached a pretty stone bench at the far end of the garden.

Lisbon sank down, happy for a break from walking in heels.

Insects chirped in the deepening twilight and masses of flowers graced the air with fragrance. Lights scattered throughout the garden brightened, creating alternating pools of darkness and light.

"Happy?" He draped his arm around her shoulders in a loose embrace.

She nestled against his side and sighed contentedly. "Very."

He whispered, "So let's make this permanent."

"Mmmhmm." She blinked. "I – what?" She slid back, eyes wide.

He was drowning in the fathomless green of her eyes then shook himself back to the present. "I don't want you to doubt this – us – ever again. You need certainty." Throat tight he added, "As do I." He took her hands. "Teresa, will you marry me?" His eyes shone with love and hope, no masks, nothing held back.

Her forehead creased with emotion. She answered, voice shaky, "Yes, Patrick, yes I'll marry you." His naked relief summoned a giggle. Giddy with delight, "You're losing your touch if you had any doubt. Jane!"

Sheepishly, "Cut me some slack. And it's 'Patrick' when we're talking marriage, woman," laughter dispelling the tension. "Oh." He twisted around to reach a vest pocket. Uncharacteristically uncertain, "I think you'll like it," he said opening the jewelry box. Emeralds, diamonds and platinum glittered despite dim light. His taste was exquisite; his sense of what she'd like, perfect.

Joy, relief, satisfaction, anticipation – a kaleidoscope of emotions swept through her. "It," she took a breath, "it's beautiful, Ja– Patrick." It fit perfectly. _Naturally._ "When–"

"When you came to Austin."

"Oh." She sniffed, struggling for composure.

They drew apart as other guests strolled the path. "Let's leave." Chilled champagne and delectable desserts awaited them in the privacy of their room.

 **Austin, Friday**

Fischer walked toward her desk, carefully stirring her coffee to dissolve the sugar. She needed the energy boost after weeks of grinding through suspects with too little sleep. _Case wrapped, maybe we'll get the weekend off._ She'd had a hunch about who was guilty and wanted to lay a trap – _Jane really rubbed off on me –_ but Daniels turned her down cold.

"–Kim?"

They went through each suspect by the book, thoroughly and methodically. _Sure, we had to check 'em all for a rock solid legal case, but couldn't we have_ started _with the guy I suspected?_

 _"–Kim."_

 _God, I'm not gonna last with Daniels, not to mention Pike. I could call Abbott, but really need to establish mysel–_

"Kim, c'mere." Wylie touched her arm, startling her out of her musings.

"Sorry, Wylie. What is it?" She followed him to his desk.

He looked around to be sure no one was within earshot. "I found this in the Bureau job postings."

She skimmed the information. "You applying?"

"Thinking about it. What's your take?"

"Terrorism's a big issue, lots of work, lots of attention. Does it say who'll be heading the task force?"

Wylie's enthusiasm dimmed. "No." He exhaled and slumped a bit.

"Didn't mean to rain on your parade. Position sounds attractive, but I'd want to know who I'd be working for. Your boss is at least half of whether a job will be good."

He eyed her. "Would you be interested?"

She took a moment. Before she screwed up Jane's detention – _god, was that only a year ago? –_ she'd been line to get her own unit. Abbott would probably give her that shot now ... but she was convinced she needed to break free of her mentor. "Not sure. I, I think my interests are a little different."

Disappointed, "Oh."

Kindly, "Hey. It could be a good opportunity, especially if you want field work." Pike and now Daniels hadn't shown any sign of rethinking their rigid distinction between field and specialized in-house agents.

He brightened. "Thanks. I'm seriously considering it."

He got a call that night.

 **Reno, Friday**

Lisbon slowly surfaced from Morpheus, more at peace than she'd been for ... forever. She flexed her left hand at the odd feeling, then inhaled sharply. _Not a dream! He did. I did._ She basked in relaxed happiness a decade and a lifetime in the making.

Last night they'd feasted on dessert. Imbibed an unwise amount of – very good! – champagne. Talked about everything and nothing while kissing and cuddling. By mutual assent they deferred sex. (She didn't welcome the cramps sex sometimes triggered during her period and her fastidious partner was unenthusiastic.) Now that they'd been together nearly a year sex was a regular, delightful part of their lives that could wait a few days. Practical necessity cut short her musings. She carefully wiggled out from under Jane's arm and off the bed. She couldn't resist kissing his cheek before disappearing into the bathroom.

Jane gradually registered the loss of warmth along his left side. He yawned and smiled, satisfaction curling through every cell. _She accepted._ His other half, his _better_ half would be with him permanently ... again. He watched through half-closed eyes as she returned, amazed as always that this diminutive woman somehow had legs that went on forever. He stifled a grin in anticipation of his next bombshell.

She slid under the covers and snuggled back against his side. "So now what?"

"There's always gambling, but Reno offers more than that."

"Like?"

"You know if you let me drive once in a while you could read the brochures."

"Jane."

"More parks. Skiing, though it's out of season. Hang-gliding – I'd watch. Museums–"

"–Such as?"

"Antique autos. Minerals – amazing variety. Local history. Um, in fact there's even one with artifacts from the Donner Party–"

She frowned, repelled. "You're interested in Donner Party exhibits?"

He tilted his head, "Sure. Almost everything is interesting." He amended, "Except paperwork and bureaucracies."

"But, ugh! The Donner Party."

"Not for the faint of heart, but you can appreciate the logic of cannibalism in those circumstances. You know there are modern–"

She shuddered, "That's enough, Jane! No Donner Party. Or lecture about how logical it was." Another shudder and she resolutely changed the subject. "Um, maybe we should just go on to Sacramento."

Slyly, "There's something to discuss first." Her eyebrows rose in silent query. "We're engaged. Marriage."

"Oh. I don't want some big extravaganza so we can be flexible. What do you think? And when?"

"Something simple. We can do an elaborate ceremony later if you want. How about today?" His kiss muffled her exclamation.

"What?!" she half-rose, leaning on an elbow. Wide eyed, "Jane, we can't, um, why so–"

Grinning delightedly, "We can. And we should."

She realized Jane was deliberately winding her up and controlled her reaction. After a deep breath, "Okay, Patrick Jane. Why now? Why here?"

Still grinning he answered seriously, "This has been a long time coming. There's no doubt we want to be together," a hint of uncertainty showed, "at least not for me." She hugged tightly, reassuring him. "I _want_ this to be permanent as soon as possible."

"You don't think this is – sudden? Um, I don't want some big, fancy affair, but the team? Minelli? Sam and Pete?"

"We can do a ceremony and celebration with them later. Marriage is the commitment that we both need. Now." She appeared to be thinking, but didn't say anything. "There are practical reasons. Automatic inheritance. Access in case of health problems." He added quietly, "And, if it happens, parental rights."

She took a deep breath, her level, open gaze perceiving everything, far more than his words. Slowly, "I have wanted this forever. I've wanted you to move on almost as long." She nodded, "Let's get married today if it's legally possible."

"Lisbon!" his smile rivaled the sun as he crushed her to him. "Teresa!"

She squirmed to get room to breathe. "I don't know what's required, when they're even open–"

"All set." He jumped out of bed and pulled pages from his suitcase. "I already printed off the forms and pages explaining the process. Open all day, no waiting period. Just need a government photo ID."

"I need something to wear–"

"Like that white dress?" He smiled even wider.

She shook her head ruefully. "Should'a known."

"Get up, my dear. We have a marriage to arrange!"

She took a breath and rose, her happiness equaling his incandescent joy.


	4. Chapter 4 - Sacramento Again

**Chapter 4: Sacramento Again**

 **Reno**

Marriage. The details paled against the simple fact of marrying. It would be a civil ceremony since they weren't members of a local congregation. Even so, Jane approached the pastor at the St. Therese, the Little Flower Church to see if they could be married there. Lisbon was, after all, a practicing Catholic. Jane was even a baptized Catholic though long lapsed.

Surprisingly, the pastor agreed. With conditions. Within a year they had to undergo counseling by Lisbon's priest, as was normal for couples before marriage, and reaffirm their vows in a Catholic ceremony. Jane expected the counseling would be grueling. He could effortlessly lie and manipulate, but wouldn't disrespect Lisbon that way. _I_ _don't_ _believe. What possible atonement is there for causing my family's murder? How in the world can killing Timothy Carter and Thomas McAllister be squared with "thou shalt not kill"? And what of contributing to Kristina's destruction, the slaughter of Bosco's team, and Haffner's death by Stiles?_ Lisbon nudged him back to the present, concern and encouragement plain on her face. Jane shook it off. He would do whatever was needed to satisfy Lisbon's moral and religious convictions. St. Therse was a simple, graceful setting meaningful to Lisbon and appreciated by Jane. _Worth it._

Marriage. After utter destruction. After finding reason to live beyond revenge. After years of failure, danger and doubt. After compassion, loyalty and love healed dire wounds to his soul. After despairing in exile. After daring to hope.

The sheer improbability astonished Lisbon. Any innate optimism, the expectation that _of course things will work out,_ had died with her mother _._ She met Jane when he lived for vengeance, when bonding with him was guaranteed heartbreak. And yet, common sense, convictions and protective walls proved shockingly ineffective against this complex, talented man with horrific emotional wounds and an obsession with death. Her best judgment told her to cut him loose dozens, hundreds of times as he threatened her bedrock identity as enforcer of law and champion of justice. Disturbing shades of gray supplanted simple black and white: Legal wasn't always just; illegal, not always wrong. She discovered the man behind a thousand masks even as he unlocked her heart and took up residence. This scarred, imperfect man who exposed and humiliated powerful wrong-doers took pains to hide his generosity and kindness for the innocent. Consumed with guilt and riven with pain, he delivered solace and closure to innumerable wounded survivors.

Despite everything, they'd learned to trust. And trusted to love.

Lisbon wore her white sheath dress and a crown of flowers with a short white veil. They chose her bouquet for beauty and meaning. Jane wore his charcoal three-piece suit, a patterned silver tie, and a white boutonniere. He had bought matching platinum wedding bands along with the engagement ring nearly a year ago. Lisbon walked down the aisle to a Handel fugue played by the church organist. A notary public performed the ceremony using vows written by the couple and witnessed by the pastor and a nun. A photographer videotaped the event.

Done!

The sun appeared unnaturally bright and warm air caressed her skin. Tiny winged creatures seemed to flutter pleasantly inside as Lisbon beheld the man she loved. The lonely desolation that followed ten hellish years had proved Patrick Jane was as necessary to her as air. Life was more interesting, emotions more vivid, joy transcendent. Their marriage was mere acknowledgment of reality: They had bonded long ago.

Gratitude nearly brought Jane to his knees. He thrilled to be whole, to again complete himself with the woman he loved – something he had not deserved or expected or dreamt possible. Teresa Lisbon inspired the best in him, gave purpose and direction to his life. Despite misguided efforts to protect her by distancing himself, by denying his feelings and hers, by leaving, this terrifically stubborn woman had claimed his heart with unwavering love and loyalty. His future was literally her gift. He had returned from exile to build a life. Together.

They stood outside, a bit stunned at what 15 minutes had wrought. They were united, their world transformed as longing became reality.

Eventually they stirred. She cleared her throat. "Now what?"

He squinted at the sun. "Guess we should get going before you burn to a crisp."

"Preferably," she muttered. Louder, "And?"

He smiled and shrugged. "Get on with _our_ life," sightly emphasizing 'our.' "I have a great lunch planned in Sacramento."

She rolled her eyes as they walked to the SUV. "Geez, Jane, really? Haven't we had enough fancy meals for awhile?"

"Oh, you'll like this. It's special."

She let it drop, not wanting to argue moments after getting hitched.

The two-and-a-half hour drive to Sacramento felt like hundreds of drives to crime scenes and lulled them into comfortable silence, until Jane broached starting their life together. Despite their long CBI partnership, she simply didn't know how living together would be.

"–Lisbon –"

 _God, I'm not ready for 24/7 Jane nosiness, for all this openness and honesty – except for him, he'd better let me in. Haven't lived with anyone since the academy. Well, there was Austin but we were focused on Blake so does that even count?_

"–Teresa –"

 _We have a boatload of baggage. Yeah, Jane apparently had a happy marriage with Angela, but will this trigger bad memories? I just don't -_

"Teresa!" She looked over, jarred from her thoughts. Lightly, "Hey. Economize on the worrying or you'll wear yourself out. We'll talk when we get there."

She sucked in a breath and exhaled. "Never did this before."

"Lucky for you, I have." He glanced over, a mischievous gleam in merry eyes, "I already gave you years of practice putting up with my crap. How can you miss?"

As intended, annoyance replaced worry. She relaxed and dozed the rest of the trip.

"Voila! Lunchtime, Mrs. Jane."

She blinked awake, "Gonna take a while to get use to _that–_ "

He grinned, "'Lisbon' is fine too. C'mon. Food awaits."

She looked around to see they'd arrived at Marie's Cafe. Hands down they were the best dressed couple in the tiny dining area as they lunched on their favorite sandwiches, followed by Sacramento's best pastries. Marie caught sight of their matching rings, smiled widely and gave them each a free pastry.

Jane fastidiously wiped mouth and hands after his chicken salad sandwich. "Time to address practicalities, my dear. –Where do you want to live?"

Lisbon rubbed her forehead. "Shouldn't we have guidelines? Cost? Location? Rent versus buy? Size?"

"Cost's unimportant. So, where? I'd prefer to own ... if you're comfortable with that."

She frowned and leaned forward. "Of course cost's important. Are we splitting–"

Intense, definite. " _No._ We're married and what's mine is yours. The Malibu house sold for several million, cost isn't an issue. Focus on what we want."

She leaned back and silently regrouped. _Had no life for a decade, denied himself the smallest comforts. I'll be damned if my hangups screw this up._ Jane sipped his tea, giving her time.

She straightened and said briskly, "All this deference is getting us nowhere. Time to–" she held up a finger, rose and walked to the counter to borrow a pad of lined paper, and returned, "–organize and get on with it. Jane, what do you want in a house?" She drew vertical columns and wrote headings on the pad. He grinned when she muttered, "Lead, follow or get the hell out of the way."

An hour later they left with a list of requirements for the home they'd buy, a to-do list for getting settled and starting their private investigative agency, and a bag of pastries. That night they would exchange the financial and legal details that spouses should have. It would be a busy week.

 **San Francisco**

Cho locked the door and tossed his bag on the foyer table. He shed his shoes, having kept his parents' habit of leaving shoes at the door, followed by jacket and tie. Instead of a quiet day finishing case paperwork, he'd accepted a new job and was instantly behind. He let himself reflect on Mac's sudden death as he warmed left-overs and got a beer. _Dying of natural causes at retirement age isn't the worst fate for an agent._ It was too bad, he regretted Mac's death, but that's all. He set it aside.

A few weeks earlier Abbott had hit the ground running as head of the new FBI terrorism initiative. Mancini was slow in getting the west coast task force underway, courtesy of the lingering blight of Blake corruption. He snorted at the irony. The taint of Blake had limited his offers after Quantico. Abbott hired him on suspicion he was part of Blake ... only to end up backing the old SCU team's plan to get the Blake leaders. Their victory over Blake led to Abbott's promotion, which led to Cho's opportunity. _There are no coincidences._ Cho shook his head at Jane's echo. _Con man murders Red John, exposes Blake, gets Blake leaders which boosts Abbot and now me. Couldn't make this up._

Cho went through the applications for his task force. After the nth application from a smart, experienced, straight-arrow agent he knew why Jane came to mind. _Field and resident offices are filled with good, standard-issue agents. Task force will only make a difference if I bring something more to the table. Think outside the box, make connections, take chances._ He'd start over tomorrow with a sharper focus on what he wanted. Right now he had a call to make.

"Hello?"

"Wylie, Cho. Got a minute?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I'm heading a west coast counter-terrorism task force–"

"-Wow, that's you? I, uh, was looking at position descriptions for that task force. Didn't say who the SA would be."

"Took the job today. You ready to move on, move to Sacramento?"

"Gosh, I want to. Tell me about the position."

"My task force of five will work with counter-terrorism agents along the west coast. D.C. is too remote. Individual field offices aren't specialized enough and have trouble connecting the dots across offices. Six task forces across the US will coordinate CT efforts in their regions and work closely with all Homeland agencies and personnel."

"How would I fit in?"

"Tech skills for sifting and linking massive amounts of data. Track known terrorists, their associates, money flows, weapons and explosives components. New administration is letting us monitor social media too. Plus international databases. With just five agents you'll also have to work in the field."

"I want that." Nervously, "You know I don't have a lot of field experience..."

"You'll get it. Can you take a day and fly out?"

"Unless we have a case. When?"

"Likely week after next. I have a lot of work to find my other four."

"Oh." _I'm his first pick!_

Cho's lips twitched at the smile in Wylie's voice. "Hey. Don't get ahead of yourself. You only get the job if my SAC Mancini approves. Listen, I've–"

"–Cho," he interrupted, "I, um, don't mean to speak for her, but would there be anything for Ki – Fischer?"

Cho paused. _Austin must be really bad._ "Not a good fit. Have her call me anyhow."

"Oh," disappointed. "Okay."

"'Night."

"Good night, boss." Past reality, present hope.

Cho's lips quirked as he hung up. _That's one. Need four more._

Time zipped by. He found an apartment in Sacramento over the weekend. Then he had his last week with the San Francisco office helping Davis finish up Mac's work. On Friday he said goodbye to Jorgenson and took the opportunity to recommend Fischer for the vacant SA position.

By Saturday morning he was as ready as he could be for the move. The last detail was subletting his place for the remainder of his lease. He'd turned down two parties but hoped the internet inquiry by "Flygirl" would pan out. He had time to visit his mother in Oakland before meeting Flygirl at 4.

Cho parked a few cars down from his mother's house _._ He let himself in and locked the door, squelching the recurring thought that she should move away from the gang-infested area. _Voices._

"Ma?"

"Kimball, in the kitchen."

Rigs, Van Pelt, Min-Ji and – Alyssa?! were finishing a lunch of bulgogi, rice and bull sauce, and kimchi with his mother.

"–Hi," Van Pelt greeted. She was busy feeding Taylor and keeping the baby from grabbing the plate.

"–Hey, Cho," Rigs greeted. "Been a while."

"–Cho," nodded Alyssa Chay.

Min stiffly nodded, put her dishes in the sink and left for her room upstairs. Cho watched his cousin walk away then shook his head and turned back to the others.

"Kimball, do you want–" Mrs. Cho looked toward the food containers and started to rise.

"–Thanks, Ma. I'll get it." Cho hugged his mother, grabbed a plate and filled it with food, then joined the group at the table. "Why are you all here?"

"Visit your mom since I'm in the area," Alyssa answered. Her mother had missed her Korea homeland when the Army posted their dad in California in the '90's. Her mom struck up a friendship with Mrs. Cho and the families were close ever since.

"Wayne and I came to talk with Min–"

"–Who you met while helping my mom," Cho recalled.

"We want her to babysit this summer."

Rigsby explained, "Child care is killing us. It isn't the money, it's the lack of flexibility. It would be during weekdays. Weekends only if we're both away on cases."

Cho nodded. "She going to do it?"

Van Pelt nodded, "She can do independent study in math around the baby sitting. If this works we'll look for a nanny when she starts her fall semester."

In a conversation lull Mrs. Cho asked quietly, "Kimball, you're moving again?" The Rigsby's looked at him in surprise.

"I'm taking the SA position for a counter-terrorism team in Sacramento. Even closer, Ma." She said nothing, but the anxiety left her face.

"This as good as a regular unit? Even under Mancini?" Rigsby asked.

Cho nodded. "High visibility, broader reach, better pay."

Rigsby clapped him on the back. "You've earned it. Glad you got the opportunity."

"Everything okay at the CIB?"

Rigsby answered, "Even better. Hightower relaxed the arson and cybercrime specialization so we both get general cases now."

Van Pelt shrugged one elegant shoulder. "Smart. Oh, did you hear about Lisbon and Jane?" Cho shook his head. "They're done with Austin and are back in Sacramento."

"It's Jane. No surprise."

Rigsby said, "Boss negotiated the deal. Jane and Lisbon still have to work several cases a year for Abbott but they can live where they want, do what they want."

"Which is what?"

Van Pelt answered, "Lisbon said something about starting their own PI agency."

"Makes sense. Maybe we can get together." Cho glanced at Alyssa. "How about you? Line something up after the Air Force?" It had been months since she'd dropped by with Elise.

She leaned back with an easy grin. "I am what you call a floating aerial specialist for the State of California." Cho's eyebrows rose in silent query. "Pilot planes to drop water or fire suppression chems on forest fires and–"

"–Isn't that dangerous?" Van Pelt asked with a frown.

"–unlike being an agent?" she shot back, amused. "A little. Adds to the fun. I also fly helicopters for disaster relief, med-evac, whatever. If it flies, I'm interested. Pay's great and I can live anywhere."

Cho asked, "Why not go the commercial airline route?"

She made a face. "Kicked around enough in the Air Force and as an Army brat. Plus I like the variety."

After a barely perceptible hesitation he asked, "What's new with Elise?"

Alyssa huffed. "Still climbing that bureaucratic ladder. Politicking's even worse in Sacramento, but then she chose to be a lawyer."

The three agents nodded, no stranger to politics in the capital city. Rigsby rose and cleared the table. "Mrs. Cho, thanks for lunch, but we've gotta get back. Sarah's dropping Ben off tonight."

Van Pelt added, "Please tell Min we'll call in a few weeks when the summer semester starts." Mrs. Cho bustled about getting food ready for them to take.

While the women were busy Cho asked Rigs, "You get along with Min. Can't figure what she's got against me."

Rigsby replied quietly, "When we were helping your mom it took three weeks before she'd even say 'hi' to me. Got a chip on her shoulder about men."

"No kidding," Cho frowned. "Why?"

"Beats me." Rigsby cleared his throat, uncomfortable as always delving into emotions. "Grace says it's something about her father being a hard man. Maybe your mom would know. –Look, gotta go. Call if you need help setting up after the move."

Rigsby gave Mrs. Cho a gentle hug then shlepped food and baby paraphernalia to their SUV with Cho's help.

Cho watched them drive away and turned back to his mother and Alyssa. "I have to meet someone at my townhouse. I'll be back tonight, Ma."

Alyssa leaned against the wall and smirked. "No you don't." Cho frowned in confusion. "You have to meet 'Flygirl" at 4, right?" Her grin gave it away.

"You're 'Flygirl'?"

"Uh-huh."

"Why didn't your email say so?"

She nudged his arm affectionately. "Thought you knew. –Your cousin Su mentioned you were trying to subIet on Facebook."

He took a breath. "So, want to see the place?"

"Sure. Let's go."

A few hours later they struck a deal. Afterward they stopped at a local pub for a beer before returning to Mrs. Cho's house for a few hours of reminiscing and catching up.

 **En Route**

Lisbon blinked sleepily, surfacing from the muted white-noise roar of airplane engines. Jane was sound asleep beside her, stretched as comfortably as possible in the reclining first class seat. She glanced at her watch. They were 11 hours into the 13-hour flight. She didn't bother to figure out the local time. It was irrelevant until they arrived.

Eager to avoid boredom, Jane made reservations on a flight leaving at night so they could sleep during much of the flight in synch with their Sacramento nighttime. The flight would be one extended hassle. He hadn't flown much after his family's murder and found the security measures irritating. It was especially aggravating because the Transportation Security Administration was unbelievably ineffective at preventing passengers from bringing aboard weapons – more comforting ritual than effective security. Their FBI ID's helped them sidestep the worst of it at the Sacramento airport, but would be little help overseas. Jet lag was inevitable regardless.

After a quick trip to the restroom she settled back, nestled close to her husband. _Husband! How long will it take to get used to that?_ She marveled at the week which had hurtled along at breakneck speed. Marriage in Reno. House hunting. Getting licensed as PI's.

Finding a house was easy when money wasn't an issue. They chose a medium sized house on ten acres surprisingly close in. Lisbon was taken aback at the price but came around when Jane strongly argued for a short commute. After living in San Francisco and Sacramento she was no stranger to California's traffic nightmare. The FBI, CIB and SacPD all were headquartered in downtown Sacramento.

It wasn't a little yellow cottage but it wasn't a showplace mansion either. Of course, any property with land and a short commute would be older. The house they chose had been renovated. _Kitchen to die for, four bedrooms, pool, acreage. I can get used to this._ By unspoken agreement they pretended they needed four bedrooms so they could have dual home offices – _yeah, like Jane's ever used a desk –_ plus a guest room. The living area had a wall of sliding floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened to a covered patio and pool. _Not the Pacific but at least Jane gets to swim_ , which she only recently learned was his favorite exercise. (With her fair skin and raised in Chicago, swimming never had a chance of being her favorite.)

Despite years of working together, they learned new things about each other during their house hunting. The house looked fine to her as it stood. Her fastidious partner insisted on having it repainted and thoroughly cleaned. To her relief Jane knew someone ( _of course he knew someone!_ ) who would have everything done in a couple of weeks, including moving and setting up her furniture. They would start with her furniture and make new purchases as needed.

Dylan Campbell was a former carnie who'd shifted to the mainstream by specializing in serving carnies. He was a lawyer and CPA who would handle anything legal – for a price. Jane assured her he was capable and absolutely trustworthy. The retribution he'd face from angry carnies guaranteed it. Campbell had long handled Jane's money, including blind off-shore accounts that the FBI had never found. That night in bed Jane revealed Campbell had honestly handled his finances while he was in the asylum.

She was surprised by Jane's insistence on secrecy and security, then decided she shouldn't be. A trust he controlled purchased the house for cash. The house wouldn't be linked to their names in any public documents. Jane rented a PO box rather than have mail delivered to the house. And Campbell would get a state of the art security system installed while they were touring Europe. She blinked at a new thought. _Wonder if that's why Jane asked if I want dogs? Sure, he knows I like them. He also knows they were life-savers when Blake attacked Grace and Rigs in Iowa._ She leaned over and kissed Jane's cheek. Though sad he felt the need, with his background she wouldn't dream of objecting.

After the house they'd tackled getting licensed as private investigators. Lisbon was pleased the process was as straightforward as she recalled. Age 18 or older. Pass a criminal background check. Have at least three years of compensated experience in investigative work (she snorted at that). And pass a two-hour exam. She worried Jane would blow off the multiple-choice exam when he chuckled throughout. He aced it to her relief and annoyance. _What a surprise the proctor didn't appreciate Jane's suggestions for improving the exam._ By the time they returned they should be able to plunk down their fees and get their licenses. Having kept her California firearm licenses she only had to arrange for insurance. Jane found a business park that offered instant office space: Receptionist, furnished offices, business address, conference rooms, copiers, office supplies, and break room. They ordered business cards in the name of "Lisbon  & Jane, Private Investigators."

Jane suggested they take that trip to Europe while waiting for the bureaucratic gears to grind through for the house purchase and their PI licenses. It seemed sudden to Lisbon, but she couldn't think of a reason not to.

She dozed, comfortable everything was well in hand. The plane's chime woke them just before landing.

 **The UK**

London.

The early evening was cool and cloudy. A recent light rain had washed the air and made colors intense. Despite feeling like a rube around Jane she couldn't help rubbernecking during the cab ride to their hotel. Yes, it was a big city, but the sights and sounds were different. It even smelled different. As a girl she had loved reading historical fiction with her mother. It was one thing to imagine a place from descriptions or pictures, and quite something else to _be_ there. For the first time she felt the weight of history around her, so different from the ephemera of California.

After settling in at their hotel, they dined at a nearby restaurant as twilight darkened to night. Their internal clock insisted it was morning so they walked along the Thames for a few hours. Jane shared stories from the several psychic tours he had done in the UK and Europe. Lisbon shared knowledge she'd picked up reading. Even aside from tales about royalty, history was never far from the surface in London. She knew the Thames as the river of commerce and war. Jane dropped tidbits such as how the great London fogs were unknown before coal was burned to power the industrial revolution. She teased him with descriptions of corpses floating down the river during plagues, then admitted that historical fiction routinely glozed over the gross details of the times or it wouldn't be nearly as popular. London was Western history in a microcosm. They returned to their hotel by midnight and talked until tired enough to sleep.

They woke mid-morning, still adjusting to the time change.

"What do you want to see today?" he asked over breakfast.

Her forehead wrinkled in indecision. "You know more about London, you choose."

"That's ridiculous. There must be specific things you want to see after reading those historical novels."

She looked down. "Jane, this is _our_ vacation. You'll be bored to tears doing touristy stuff. If we're only here a few days I don't want to waste the time."

"Ah." He sipped his tea. (He was reveling in the ubiquity of excellent tea.) "It's impossible to do justice to the UK in a few days. Let's agree we'll come back for several weeks just for the UK and Ireland."

Slowly, "That makes sense. But I don't want to drag you around to places you," she swallowed, "you probably consider tourist traps or something. You're not telling me what you'd enjoy."

He smiled ruefully. "The same things as you. When I traveled it was for work. Sure, I saw a few things here and there when private clients wanted to show off their cities. Most of my time was spent performing. Let's make use of the excellent London cabbies for our own tour of the highlights."

They caught a cab and happily went around to the iconic London landmarks: Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathedral, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the House of Parliament, and the Tower of London. The Tower of London had been a prison, zoo, arsenal and mint at various times. The crown jewels and coronation regalia of monarchs housed there lent substance to the historical fiction she'd read. Jane thought of _A Tale of Two Cities_.

They went to Stonehenge and Windsor Castle the next day. Jane delighted in driving, scaring Lisbon half to death every time traffic approached on the "wrong" side of the road. Jane really did drive too fast for narrow hedgerowed lanes but somehow they arrived in one piece. Jane was fascinated by the astronomical significance of Stonehenge that he'd learned about from documentaries. He was always impressed by how much ancient peoples discovered and figured out without modern tools and knowledge. Lisbon lingered over the royal collection in the castle. Tired and hungry, she had to drag Jane away from the breath-taking collection of paintings by famous artists – Rembrandt, Rubens, Gainsborough. They left footsore but pleased at what they'd seen.

"Anything else you want to see before we leave tomorrow, Lisbon?"

"This was a lot. You're right about needing to spend weeks in the UK."

"Up for one more thing?"

"Spit it out. What?"

"The London Eye."

"That huge Ferris wheel?"

"Yep. The view has to be spectacular."

She squinted at him skeptically. "Mmhm. Couldn't have anything to do with bragging rights with Pete and Sam."

He scratched his cheek and shrugged with one shoulder. "Maybe. Game?"

"Sure, Jane. Just let my feet recover a while before we have to stand in another line."

The view was spectacular. Lisbon saw it once Jane coaxed her to look from the equivalent of 44 stories high with precious little visible support.

 **Paris**

Jane insisted they take the Eurostar the next morning. He was beginning to suspect a pattern. First nerves about the Carlsbad Caverns and now a few too many questions about the 31-mile Chunnel. But the convenience and novelty were too much to pass up. They arrived at Gare du Nord right in the middle of Paris.

No description she'd read came close to doing Paris justice. Jane was more familiar with Paris than London and they stayed at the Hotel Montalambert. Jane disdained the more modern rooms and pressed to stay in one of the old rooms decorated in the Napoleon III style.

The hotel rested on the left bank right near the Musee d'Orsay, the train station converted into a museum for Impressionist masterpieces. Jane was enthralled as they browsed the museum. Impressionism was among the few art movements Lisbon really enjoyed so the museum was a treat for both, especially when illuminated by Jane's knowledge. After, they wandered the small shopping streets in the Latin quarter. Lisbon declined Jane's offer to stop at the Deyrolle, famous for taxidermy. The antique shops on Rue Jacob held their attention for awhile. Lisbon had little interest but Jane appreciated the fine craftsmanship. He bought an escritoire – an antique secretary desk – of exceptionally clever design. Including shipping costs, Lisbon was sure it cost many times more than any furniture he might have bought in California. And, of course, it was a desk. He'd never use it.

Mid-day they walked across the Pont Neuf, the new bridge which ironically was the oldest bridge across the Seine, to the Ile de la Cite in the center of Paris. Jane got them ice cream at Berthillon, and it was the best Lisbon had ever tasted. Somehow they didn't have to wait in the endless line. The six-hundred year old Notre-Dame Cathedral was on the isle. They paused outside to take in the sheer beauty of the stained glass and graceful Gothic architecture.

"How can you not believe when religion inspired men to build this?"

"I appreciate the beauty. People create beauty for many reasons having nothing to do with religion. It's just as logical to credit humanity as religion, Lisbon," he argued reasonably.

Lisbon just sighed and dropped it. They went on to tour the cathedral. To her surprise, she didn't like the inside much at all, finding it scary and dark.

They had a late dinner at Benoit, an old bistro that was now the province of world class chef Alain Ducasse, a change from when Jane had first dined there two decades earlier. Jane ordered them both the boeuf mode, which he called the "mother of all pot roasts." It wasn't even on the menu. The older waiters ensured they got all the old favorites. The dessert of poached pears with chocolate sauce, toasted almonds and vanilla ice cream managed to surpass the ice cream they'd had that afternoon. "Always go with old school," Jane told her as she groaned from over indulging in the best food she'd ever eaten.

It was nearly midnight when they turned in for the night. She finally realized what was puzzling her. Jane slipped into bed beside her with a happy sigh.

"Jane–"

"Mm?"

"How is it we haven't stood in any lines?"

"Meh. Minor perk of my past."

"Really. How do you manage that?" dissatisfied with his cryptic non-explanation.

He exhaled noisily, not wanting to get into it. "A bunch of little things. You know."

Grumpy, "If I knew I wouldn't ask."

He turned to face her, giving in. "Angela and I spent a month here before Charlotte came along. She may even – never mind."

 _Which explains how you know Paris._ She ignored the pang.

He continued, "Some may remember me from the vacation or my performances-"

"–They remember _one person_ out of millions that far back? And still work at the same jobs?"

"A few. I drew big crowds and gave them a good time. I've picked up a smattering of French which helps."

 _But you didn't master Spanish during two years in Venezuela_. _Huh._

"I make a point of remembering names. The stiffs manning the major attractions have to cope with millions of crabby, clueless, often rude visitors."

"So?" _Like carny folk manning attractions._

"People 101. Show respect, remember names, bother to learn a bit of the language. If there's tipping – a lot of times there isn't, but if there is, tip well. Makes an impression." He turned away, done.

"A-n-d, your ability to read people doesn't hurt either," she said.

"Meh." He yawned and kissed her good night. He was soon asleep.

She went over the day and realized Jane had said a few words in French every place they stopped. He had addressed some of the waiters by name at the restaurant. _And_ , she admitted to herself, _Jane is memorable, especially his smile_. Consideration – _charm?_ – was a universal language Jane had mastered. _But then what else is new?_ Curiosity satisfied, she settled in alongside and soon joined him in sleep.

They remained in Paris a few more days creating a chaotic, colorful collection of memories.

The Picasso museum was stunning and unforgettable.

Victor Hugo's home was interesting, especially since she'd read some of his (translated) works.

Lisbon insisted on visiting La Grande Jatte island. Growing up she repeatedly visited Seurat's best known pointillist painting at the Chicago Art Institute. The island was modern and different. But she still appreciated the chance to walk the park that inspired her favorite painting.

They admired the Pyramide at night, lit up and embraced by the classic buildings of the Louvre surrounding it. They chose not to go in. Jane had been to the Louvre long ago but declined to return because of oppressive crowds and repetitive subject matter ("How many virgins ascending to heaven can I really appreciate?").

She visited several churches built in different centuries. Jane preferred to wait outside watching the crowds. As with London, the weight of history was palpable.

To her surprise, some of the funniest, most memorable moments involved food. They got lunch at some ferocious café with throngs shouting at the counter staff. The simple _sandwich mixte pour emporter_ (to go) was tastier than many dinners she'd had in good California restaurants. However, the bottled _badoit_ water Jane recommended tasted like it was dipped from a sewer. She thought it only fair he caught some of the spray as she hastened to rid her mouth of it.

Jane took her to the famed cheese shop Barthelmy. The smell was incredible before they even entered the treasure trove of assorted cheeses. The few small samples they bought to eat at their hotel opened a new universe of flavor to Lisbon. She vowed to expand her tastes beyond the plastic cheese pretenders that she now realized were nothing short of horrid.

Jane plucked the wine list from her hands when they dined at an outdoor café. He quietly told her the French consider Brits wine snobs. Perusing the list would likely make the waiters think they were British.

She frowned. "So what? They'd give bad service?"

"Oh no. The service would be impeccable. The French just have a talent for subtle snubbing and you'd know it." He thought a moment. "Even worse, if you didn't know it, everyone around you would. Very embarrassing."

The pitcher of house red turned out to be a lively and good beaujolais. When the waiter repeatedly asked if she wanted more coffee she answered _'merci'_ but received nothing. After the second time an amused Jane told her to answer _'oui.'_ ' _Merci_ ' was taken as 'No, thank you.' She grumbled that she was glad he bothered telling her before caffeine withdrawal set in. He redeemed himself by suggesting she order the _bouchée à la reinean_ and quince cheese. The dishes turned out to be a delicious shell puff pastry with cream sauce and chicken and a quince-based confection.

Before they left France Lisbon solemnly informed Jane she finally understood his love for his Citroen. "They all drive like madmen in Paris."

 **A Bit of Europe**

Lisbon wanted to experience as much as possible. In addition to the UK and France, they'd also spent time in Italy and now the Netherlands. It was impossible to even consider anything more.

When she woke it took a second to realize they were in Amsterdam. It was a "It's Friday so this must be the Netherlands" moment." They were scheduled to leave a few days later after seeing the Anne Frank house, (yet more) excellent churches, etc., etc. She decided Jane was right all along. They needed to build vacation time into their lives to see the world in enjoyable, manageable pieces. Right now, she was tired: Too much sight-seeing, too many countries, too little time for in-depth appreciation.

"Patrick, it's time to go back."

He yawned. "Works for me. Was this worthwhile?"

"You know it was. Just too much. And, well, I'm looking forward to our new house–"

"–home."

"–home," she echoed. "To starting our agency. Feels like forever since I investigated anything more mysterious than a menu of unfamiliar food in some foreign language."

He pulled her close for a kiss. "Hmm. That is the point of a vacation. Something different, a break from the grind."

"Can we get a flight today?"

"I'll see." After checking his smart phone, "I can change our tickets to a flight late this afternoon and keep first class seats."

"Maybe we could leave sooner from another city or fly coach."

He gathered her in his arms. "Hey. Harder for us if we start playing musical cities. This flight is reasonable and we're definitely flying first class for a 13-hour trip."

Petulant, "So we're stuck waiting around all day." She softened her tone. "Ignore that. This afternoon is fine."

Two weeks of historically significant everything had become oppressive. They opted to spend the morning among millions of flowers at Keukenhof Gardens, a short drive from Amsterdam. The 80-acres of brilliantly colored tulips and other flowers were cheering and relaxing.

It was still early when they got back to Amsterdam. Disinclined to spend extra hours in the airport, they strolled a narrow cobblestone street of quaint shops near their hotel. The road was blocked off from vehicles for a fair. Pedestrian traffic was beginning pick up as everyone headed toward a central square for the craft fair of toys. Barrels of free toys and trinkets were set outside several shops in the spirit of the event. Hordes of school children were arriving, chattering happily as harried adults rode herd.

"Lisbon, this is–"

She took few more steps before noticing he'd stopped. His face was ashen and frozen in fear. She stepped back. "What's wro–"

"Terrorist," he choked out subtly indicating a man walking toward the square perhaps 20 feet behind them.

Eyes huge, "You're sure?"

He breathed, "Young male. Heavy, bulky jacket on a warm day. Body language screams tension, danger. Hidden hands. Stop him, Lisbon."

" _Can't_! No gun." She looked around desperately, "No police. What–"

"Look! Marbles. I'll scatter them, keep him from the kids. Get a shop keeper to call the police. Then run like hell."

Lisbon ducked into the first unlocked door.

When the man was nearly abreast Jane suddenly tipped the barrel. Marbles scattered, bouncing and rolling everywhere.

The man ran. Slipped. Fell. Cracked his head with a sharp report. Lay still.

The warble of a police car sounded an instant later.

Jane slowly rose from behind a concrete planter then jumped up. "Dammit stay away!" he yelled as Lisbon emerged and approached the man.

She backed off.

They screamed at pedestrians to stay back. If their words didn't register, their crazed, fearful look did. Jane reached Lisbon just as the police arrived and gingerly picked their way to the unconscious figure. When they reached the man their double-take told Jane he'd been right.

Jane grabbed Lisbon's arm and half-dragged her down the street to their hotel. He drowned out her protests. "They don't care who we are, just that he's wearing a bomb vest. C'mon. Let them handle it." He panted and shook from adrenaline as they paused inside the hotel. "Oh, god, Lisbon. Teresa. You're okay?"

She took his arms and faced him. "It's okay. Nothing happened. The police have him. It's okay." They held each other till their trembling stopped and breathing slowed. They released their grip and stepped apart.

"Let's get our luggage and get the hell out of here," he said hoarsely. He walked to the front desk on rubbery legs.

Lisbon reluctantly followed. It violated her training to duck out on a crime scene, but Jane was right. They had nothing to contribute beyond foiling the attack. The flower-filled morning was blighted by near mass murder. All she wanted was to get home. They collected their luggage and left immediately. Two hours later they were on their way home.


	5. Chapter 5 - Getting Underway

**Chapter 5: Getting Underway**

 **FBI, Sacramento, Wednesday Afternoon**

Cho waited until the fifth agent took a seat.

"Tomorrow you each meet with my boss, S.A.C. Mancini. Today we'll talk about what you're getting into, who you'll be working with. Introduce yourself and explain your interest in counter-terrorism." He glanced to the man on his left.

The group looked over the slight, late-20's man with intense dark brown eyes. "Omar Hassan. My family fought with the Americans against Saddam Hussein." His faint accent intensified with emotion. "I want to keep terrorism out of America." Attention turned to the next man.

"Jorge Rodriguez. My cousin was out sick during the terrorist attack in San Bernadino. But for the grace of God..." He added impulsively, "I _hate_ that people come here wanting to kill." He looked down.

The next agent stood out for his near-white blond hair and pale coloring. "I'm Jason Wylie. I was Agent Cho's tech specialist in Austin. When I grew up in Virginia my black friends talked about how the Ku Klux Klan terrorized their grandparents."

The only woman spoke next. "Asiya Muhammad. After speaking for women's rights in Saudi Arabia I faced prison or worse." She paused, weighing what to add. "Powerful Saudi's fund extremist imams and mosques in the US and around the world. America has to fight the spread of Wahhabi poison."

The last to speak was a black man, not the familiar warm mocha brown but deeper, almost blue-black. "I am Aber Ojara. I know terrorism from The Lord's Resistance Army in the Congo. Kony's bastardized Christian movement uses murder, abduction, mutilation, child sex slavery, and forced service in his army. Terrorism is an abomination." Having arrived as a child two decades ago there was no hint of his foreign origins.

Cho continued. "Terrorism's not new, but the 9-11 attack made it clear we're at war, like it or not. Despite 15 years of war, Islamic terrorism is spreading and we're experiencing more attacks in the US. You're experienced law-enforcement agents: Solve the crime, catch the perp, put 'em away." He continued slowly, intensely. "If we solve and win convictions for every attack, _we will have failed_. Terrorists don't kill for personal gain, won't be deterred by long sentences, and won't be rehabilitated. CT aims to _prevent_ mass murder, _prevent_ them from tearing our country apart." He paused.

"Thwarting attacks is harder than crime-solving after the fact. For every terrorist, there are thousands of law-abiding citizens. We also fail if fighting terrorism comes at the expense of freedom and civil rights. Our goal is _legally_ foiling attacks and putting would-be terrorists away. Their failure will be the best deterrent." He paused.

Rodriguez lifted a finger to indicate a question. Cho nodded. "What about Washington? Does the new administration really support going after Islamic terrorists instead of pussy-footing around?"

Cho looked at him steadily for a moment. "These new task forces are proof of support from the top. Dennis Abbott is heading this initiative. I worked for him. He's smart, tough, and by the book." He looked around the group. "Yes, we're going after radical Islamic terrorism as well as _every_ group planning attacks. Neo-Nazi's, eco-terrorists, right- and left-wing extremists, anti-government groups, Ku Klux Klan and white supremacists, black radicals, anti-Semites." He looked at Rodriguez, "Hispanic extremists," then looked away. "Their right to believe whatever they want ends when it becomes violent." He paused to let that sink in.

Wylie cleared his throat and Cho looked to him, "Question?"

"We're six agents. How do we fit with regular FBI offices, local law-enforcement, and the hundred FBI Joint Terrorism Task Forces across the US?"

"Good question. We cover the coastal states building on work by the locals and JTTF's. You need to think on your feet and outside the box while working cooperatively with others. We'll bridge geographic gaps to identify new and emerging threats, especially those linking up with other criminal and terrorist groups. Drug cartels now getting terrorists into the US are a good example. We'll be especially useful for undercover work since we're _not_ known locally. Your ideas are welcome."

He looked around the group. "You're all experienced. You have a personal interest in fighting terrorism. As a unit, we're familiar with several non-Western cultures and fluent in a dozen languages. My boss needs confidence in this team to give us the running room we need. _I_ need your commitment to this task force and approach. If this doesn't make sense to you, if you can't buy in, then bow out now." He looked around the table. "Stop by my office or call if you have questions." After a moment, "Next three hours are yours. Meet in the lobby at 5 for dinner." With a nod Cho rose and left. The group milled around and talked before dispersing.

 **FBI, Sacramento, Thursday Morning**

Jason Wylie waited outside Mancini's office in the reception area. Mancini's administrative aide was busy and paid little attention. A young woman briskly entered and sat nearby. He sensed her gaze and glanced her way.

She abruptly rose and stuck out her hand. "Agent Wylie, right?"

Wylie blinked, "Um, yeah?"

"Agent Michelle Vega." She shook his hand firmly. "Worked with Agent Cho in San Francisco and am joining his task force." She glanced at Mancini's door. "I'm early. Guess my appointment is after yours."

Puzzled, "You weren't at yesterday's meeting."

"Yeah. Someone dropped out and Cho is giving me a shot." She looked hesitant for the first time, "I'm not as experienced, but I'll pull my weight."

"Oh. Great. I mean–"

She smiled for the first time. "It's okay. I know I have to prove myself. And I will." She looked away for an instant. "Cho said you're really great at IT."

Flattered that Cho had mentioned him he said enthusiastically, "Dream job. All the hardware and software I could ask for to solve fu– interesting problems. Plus now I get time in the fiel–" The door opened and Agent Ojara exited.

The aide said, "Agent Wylie, you may go in."

Wylie rose instantly. "Thank you. –Maybe we can talk later, Agent Vega."

"Vega." Another smile.

An hour later Mancini had finished the interviews. Cho knocked, entered and sat across from him. Mancini had photos of the five agents spread on his desk.

Frowning slightly, "We'll talk about specific agents in a minute. Explain your rationale for the group." He glanced at the photos and huffed. "Looks like a mini-UN."

"The FBI is weakest on threats from foreign nationals and recent immigrants from non-Western cultures. Agents with their backgrounds will be incredibly useful or undercover work. We can pull agents from field offices as needed to work purely US terrorist groups."

"Three emigrated from areas that are unstable to say the least. How sure are you of them?"

"I'm sure. They were vetted before getting into the FBI. More, each has a personal reason to fight terrorism."

Mancini sat back and reflected on that. "Unless those 'personal reasons' tempt them to cut legal corners?"

"Doubt it. I asked each point blank before choosing him."

He shuffled the photos around. "Wylie was a tech specialist. Can he handle the field?"

"Needs seasoning. He'll get it on this task force. He's brilliant, takes initiative, and wants this."

"He was an exchange student to Russia and Germany. How does that figure in?"

"He talked about it when we worked together in Austin. He connected with fellow students over the technology. He came away appreciating the US even more. He's fluent in Russian and German as a result."

"Hm. It's not terrorism, but Russian criminal gangs are big problem. And Germany has big problems with Islamic terrorism at the moment. Could be useful. – Vega's green. Why her?"

"Worked with her in San Francisco. Smart, tough, ambitious. Given our southern border I want someone Hispanic who's fluent in Spanish. I think she has what it takes. The more experienced agents can compensate till she gets more experience."

Mancini relaxed. "Okay, Cho. You've covered your bases and I have no reason to second guess you." He gave him a level glance. "Better be right about this. When can they start?"

"Week after next. –Had a chance to review my plan?"

"Read it. You're on the right track, but I need to think about it. Get back to you."

"Yes, sir."

 **FBI, Washington D.C., Friday**

Dennis Abbott had arrived by 7 a.m. and was soon immersed in work. He looked up at the knock and motioned the agent in. "Wilson?"

"Foiled terrorist attack in Amsterdam about an hour ago."

"And?"

"Authorities are checking leads. Appears two Americans were somehow involved. They're en route to California on a commercial flight. Amsterdam asked the FBI to intercept and question them when there's a Seattle layover in about ten hours."

His gut tightened at the potential nightmare. "Do they pose a threat to the plane? Brief me."

"Unknown, but Amsterdam's airport screening is tight." Wilson stepped in and handed Abbott a flash drive. "Video." He continued while Abbott inserted the drive into his computer. "Police got an anonymous call about a terror threat near the City Centre Amsterdam hotel on Spuistraat. They found a young man, now ID'd as Diaudin Onbeken, lying unconscious on a side street, wearing a bomb vest."

"Unconscious?"

"Street was littered with glass marbles, y'know, kids' toys. He fell and knocked himself out without detonating. They secured the man but couldn't question him till the vest was disarmed. Hasn't said anything. Authorities stitched together security videos from nearby shops."

"What was his target?"

"Toy fair crowded with kids, they think."

"Where do Americans come into it?" Abbott asked as he watched grainy low-def video of a young man wearing a bulky coat walk down a deserted cobblestone street.

"Right–" Wilson leaned over Abbott's desk and pointed at the computer screen, "there."

Abbott's frown deepened as he watched the event. Intended to safeguard shop windows and doors, the security cameras' acute angle barely captured partial side views of a man and woman preceding Onbeken. The woman ducked into a shop. Off screen, a barrel rolled into view, scattering marbles widely. Onbeken ran, slipped and cracked his head, lay still. The blurred form of the man passed in front of the cameras then was joined by the woman. They ran and soon were out of range.

"Looks like the unsubs foiled the attack. What does Amsterdam think?"

"They could be accomplices who got cold feet. How else would they know about the vest and Onbeken's intentions? Suspicious they ran."

Abbott dragged off the heavy, black rimmed glasses and rubbed his face. Intensely, " _We have to know if they're a threat to that plane_. Names?"

"They had just checked out of the City Centre. A Patrick Jane and Teresa Lis–" Wilson stopped, shocked when Abbott burst out in relieved laughter.

Long seconds later Abbott quieted and wiped his eyes. "Jesus, Wilson. Jane and Lisbon are FBI." After the chuckles died down. "Call Amsterdam. That's as dead a lead as they can get."

Wilson hesitated, unwilling to leave until he clearly understood. An explanation later he was ready to call his European counterparts. It still seemed fantastic that someone foiled an attack on the fly. Amsterdam would get their cooperation in questioning Jane and Lisbon anyhow.

 **Sacramento**

The Citroen passed through the screen of trees. The headlights swept the yard and house as Jane pulled up to their new home.

"Still can't believe your car was at the airport."

"Why? Campbell took delivery from the Austin repair shop then left it for us. _I'm_ surprised Amsterdam sicced the FBI on us at the Seattle layover."

"I'm not." She pulled her suitcase from the trunk. "Authorities have to follow-up on everything to get a handle on terrorism."

"Hmph. Hello global police state," he grumbled, resisting government monitoring by both upbringing and philosophy. He keyed in the code for the electronic lock. Lisbon stepped forward. Jane stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Uh-uh."

"What?"

He grinned and she yelped when he swept her up in his arms, bridal style. She relaxed and he gave her a kiss. "Just respecting tradition. Carry my bride over the threshold of our new home." Her attempted scowl failed miserably at hiding the smile tugging up the corners of her mouth.

"You always gonna be this corny?"

"'Romantic' is the word you're searching for, Teresa. Just for the next fifty years or so."

He set her on her feet and flicked the light switch. She looked around with pleasure as he stepped back out to get their suitcases.

"Wow. That Campbell guy really does take care of everything."

They checked out their house. The interior was freshly painted and clean with the kitchen modifications complete. Rugs and major pieces of furniture were set in place. Boxes were neatly stacked in the appropriate rooms, ready to be unpacked. Even Lisbon's – their – bed was freshly made up with pillows and comforter in place. The bathrooms had towels, soap and new bottles of their favorite personal care products.

Lisbon wandered around, pleased but overwhelmed. The dizzying pace of change hit hard now that they were back to real life in Sacramento. In the course of three weeks she had married, founded their agency, bought a house, traveled to Europe (she rejected the term 'honeymoon'), and moved in.

"Tea? Coffee?"

"Huh?" She returned to the present and followed him to the kitchen. "You're kidding," as Jane got cups, tea and coffee from the cabinets and milk from a fully stocked refrigerator. His smug expression earned a light whack. "Don't get too full of yourself, Jane." Mollified as the scent of coffee pervaded the air she grudgingly allowed, "You did good." He huffed at the ungrammatical compliment but his smile returned and was matched by hers.

They spent the next several days unpacking and settling in. Lisbon's concerns about living with Jane largely disappeared. She'd spent most of her waking hours around Jane for a decade at the CBI. The past year in Austin they lived in connected apartments and spent even more time together out of concern about attacks by the Blake Association. They fell into an easy rhythm. Jane rose early and swam for an hour while Lisbon slept in. He showered, dressed and started breakfast while Lisbon pried herself out of bed and showered herself awake. Usually a mug of coffee was waiting on the bathroom counter after her shower. Jane was fastidious by nature. Lisbon was tidy through habits formed while keeping chaos at bay in a household of four males for years. Compromises were hashed out for the few irritations that arose. Jane habitually tossed wet towels in the hamper after swimming. That ended when the whole basket was mildewed by the time they did laundry. Drips Lisbon inadvertently left on kitchen counters ruined boxes of tea until she bought two sets of air-tight, stainless steel canisters.

Lisbon's things from Cannon River provided furniture for the living room, dining room, bedroom and her office. Jane's office was austere with just the antique _escritoire_ from France, a new office chair and couch, plus built-in bookcases. They hadn't yet gotten to buying furniture for the guest bedroom. Linens, dishes, cookware, and tableware were hers as well. It wasn't until Lisbon was arranging photos on the living room bookcases that it struck her.

"Jane."

"Hm?" He looked up from the book he was reading and noticed her frown. "What's wrong?"

"All the stuff around here is mine – I mean from my house. Now that you have a hou– _home_ again, I'd think you'd want to add some of your favorite things from..." her voice trailed off, "from your storage locker." She swallowed and joined him on the couch, feeling like she'd stumbled into a mine field.

He set his book aside and took a sip of tea. Finally, he cleared his throat, "I didn't want you to feel ... crowded by my past."

She looked away and swallowed hard. She affected a brisk, practical tone. "We're _married_ , Jane. Your past is part of you and now part of me too. Of course you should have your photos and mementos here. Just like me."

"Ah." He resumed reading. When he finished the chapter he left, saying he'd be back before dinner. When he returned, a small box disgorged several framed photos of him, Angela and Charlotte, separately and together. He placed them on a living room bookshelf while subtly watching Lisbon for any hint of discomfort. A wedding photo of Angela ended up in his office. It occupied the left side atop the secretary desk with a wedding photo of him and Lisbon on the right side. Last he hung a framed picture in his office that was visible only from inside the room: A crayon drawing of three stick figures, a man and woman holding hands with a little girl in the middle.

Over the next several days, he suggested replacing Lisbon's worn linens and low-end cookware, something she welcomed. Jane added a high-end audio system and replicated the extensive music collection he once had, heavy on classical and jazz. They'd add artwork and decorations gradually over time, and only when they found items they both really liked. Though not quite finished, it felt like home.

The next week they focused on their agency. Lisbon bought office supplies. Jane found a graphics art and printing shop to make the needed signs and stationery. He returned at lunchtime with take-out and ushered her into the break room to the waiting food. The other business tenants spent most of their time on the road or with clients so they had the room to themselves.

"Signs and stationery should be delivered in a few days. I also bought a coffee machine, kettle, and supplies." He nodded toward the kitchenette shared by all offices. When she frowned he answered her unspoken question, "Each tenant has a locked cabinet so no worries about poaching." He smiled, "No Rigsby either so our stuff will last a while. –Looks like you have things organized here."

"Mmhm," she mumbled around a bite of food, then swallowed. "Guess we have to start making the rounds of PD's."

He lazily swung back and forth in the swivel chair as he sipped tea. "Let's talk about that. Types of cases we want, who we'll work for."

"Other than PD's?"

He nodded. "The whole point is to work on what we _want_. If we hook up with PD's, will we get interesting cases? And might we need our own forensic lab for other clients?"

"What other clients?"

"Private individuals, companies. Whomever."

"Oh." She stepped into their offices for a pad and pen and started writing notes. Offhand, "We'll get hard cases from PD's."

"Because?"

"They're always strapped. Will only spend the extra money for hard, important cases."

Jane brightened. "Good. Do you agree we should turn down easy cases?"

She frowned. "What if we don't get enough work?"

"So? The money is irrelevant."

"Uh." She swallowed, still trying to absorb her new financial reality. _Now I see what he meant when he said he has nothing else to do._ Slowly, "That changes everything doesn't it? The PD's will be just as influenced by politics as the CBI. We'll get the political hot potatoes and the blame if they aren't solved. But we can afford to turn down cases we don't like, right?"

He nodded and sipped his tea, letting his thoughts wander. "When I – we – can solve a case by just reading the file maybe we should give it to them."

"Free?"

He frowned. "Well, charge something – $500 bucks? A thousand? Cover our costs at least. I'd rather not waste our time on easy cases."

She gave him an amused look, "Meaning you don't want to be bored." More notes.

He waved airily, "That too."

"O-kay. What about other clients? There's the CIB. And the FBI though you already owe them six cases a year–"

"–I owe Abbott. California field offices might want our help aside from that."

"True. More stops to hawk our services."

"That's the spirit!"

"You said companies?"

"And individuals."

"Companies refer anything violent to the cops. What's left is financial and corporate espionage stuff and employee theft. Are we interested in those cases?"

He shrugged. "Not really. How about individuals?"

"PD's will get the violent crimes. Runaways are a big problem though. Lots of times overworked cops wait a few days before investigating, hoping the kid comes back on his own. There's also family kidnappings that people try to solve themselves." He nodded. "Do we want the sleazy stuff – cheating spouses, domestic abuse?" She looked pained, "Child abuse?"

He let out his breath slowly. "Err, not sure. Depends. Who would pay to investigate abuse in their own family?"

"Concerned relatives, maybe. That's put us in the middle of nasty family battles."

Lisbon added to her notes. "I'll print out lists of major PD's and FBI offices, with any contacts I know."

"I'll draft a brochure. Services we offer, types of cases, that sort of thing."

''Kay."

It was four days, three cities, and dozen PD's later. Feeling tired and grubby, Lisbon shed her jacket, kicked off boots and flopped down on the bed in their Southern California hotel room. She watched, eyes half-closed as Jane tossed his jacket on a chair and unbuttoned his vest. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair a couple of times before joining her, shod feet hanging off the end of the bed.

She was professional and Jane was pleasant and charming so their meetings with PD's went well. Nonetheless, she was irritated that some of her PD contacts reveled in lording it over her now that they had the upper hand. She could see Jane constantly curbing his impulse to take the self-important to task. His new-found self-control was a gift to her: Jane was doing everything he could to get the PI agency she wanted off the ground.

She sighed. "This sucks."

"Of what sucking do you speak?"

"Kissing up to cops to get work. Blecch. We pay since they're potential clients, so the cheap bastards include two or three buddies to get a free lunch. And I thought Bertram was bad."

"You mean aside from partnering with a serial killer?" he teased.

She groaned at the prospect of a dozen more stops before getting back to Sacramento. "How can we minimize this _awful_ ... crap and get down to solving cases?"

He turned on his side and started smoothing her hair, jollying her out of disgruntlement. Quietly, "I have an idea."

"Oh?" When he wasn't forthcoming she nudged his arm, "Hey! Give. I'm lapsing into depression thinking of all the asses we still have to kiss."

"So to speak," appreciating her pun. His eyes sparkled. "No depression necessary, my dear. You said it yourself. It's a hard sell getting penurious PD's to spend money. Even more so when they have to convince a boss."

She tiredly rubbed her face. "So?"

"What if we make an offer they can't refuse? They pay nothing unless the case is solved, unless they get an arrest?"

"We can't do that! I've never heard of a PI agency firm offering anything like that."

"We'll stand out. All the better."

"What if we don't ... Oh."

"Yes, 'Oh.' We solved every case for ten years. This will ensure they call us before anyone else. Plus, their cost is minimal if we solve it by reading the file. Pretty sweet deal."

She lay back and thought about it. "That would have to get us cases, especially hard ones. But," she took a breath, "how desperate are we to get work. It's somehow wrong that we have to front the money."

"In a perfect world we wouldn't have to. Unfortunately we live in _this_ world. We'll make money because we'll close cases. You get to put away bad guys without the bureaucratic hassles. I get interesting puzzles plus do a little good while I'm at it. What's the problem?"

They slept well for the first time that trip. Once her PD contacts got over their disbelief, their offer was embraced with enthusiasm at their remaining stops. By Friday night they were back in Sacramento. Tired of travel, tired of hindquarter osculation, they agreed to enjoy the weekend and continue their marketing the following week.


	6. Chapter 6 - Working

**A/N: Warning - Implied sexual abuse of minor. Nothing graphic.**

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Working**

 **Lisbon, Sacramento, Monday**

Lisbon did her best to forget the weekend as she showered and dressed on autopilot. _Relax and maybe it'll happen. A week in Sacramento, two in Europe, two back in California. Two weeks late and I let myself hope._ Her period came Saturday.

She "got" that life isn't fair. It wasn't for her family 30 years ago. It wasn't for the crime victims she'd seen daily. Optimism was dangerous; regret, a distraction from getting on with things. And yet here she was, as though she was owed something for the last 13 years. For sacrificing her career to do her job. For protecting her team with everything she had. For keeping Jane sane and alive and free.

The truth was simple: She'd waited too damn long and life didn't owe her anything.

Lisbon told herself to be grateful. Jane was making a life with her, something she'd craved for years. She was free of Red John, the Blake mess, Cannon River, the FBI machine. _This is what I want, right?_ Yes.

Only now she wanted more.

Her chest ached with unfilled need. She'd daydreamed for years, despite fearing Jane might never move on (or worse). Now that he had moved on _with her_ , she wanted children with the man she loved. It was that basic. Primal.

Choices had consequences. _She_ had run from Greg. _She_ chose law enforcement. _She_ accepted the Red John case ... which led to Jane ... which led to the present. She hated him for a second – and was instantly ashamed. It was monumentally hypocritical to blame Jane for the consequences. The CBI had all the power. It could have (should have) denied him access to the case. Instead the CBI – _she_ – used him to solve cases and hunt the monster, no matter that was what Jane wanted too. Far from encouraging her, Jane had kept her at arm's length, even pushed her away. No way this was Jane's fault.

She sighed. Her team had done its best. Eliminating a serial killer and ridding the nation of a corrupt law enforcement conspiracy were extraordinary accomplishments. No one was to blame that it took so long.

Lisbon squared her shoulders and smothered her funk. They had work to do. This would keep.

 **Jane, Sacramento**

Jane prepared breakfast while Lisbon got ready. Today they'd hawk their services to Hightower and Mancini.

The weekend was disappointing to say the least. Saturday morning Lisbon woke, announced the arrival of her period, and vanished into her office. Refusing to talk, she busied herself with work (unbelievable since they hadn't gotten their first case), her old stand-by for burying pain. Sunday he all but dragged her off on a drive to Napa Valley for sunshine, lunch, and wine. They cheered up somewhat despite Lisbon's lingering sadness.

It drove him nuts. They had each other ... but nothing else. After cutting loose from the FBI, Lisbon had neither the comfort of structure nor the distraction of work (ignoring the busywork she'd managed to scrape up). She was more at loose ends than any time except, perhaps, her unhappy sojourn in Cannon River.

Jane was overjoyed to be married to Lisbon. Though he _wanted_ kids, he _needed_ Lisbon. _'Anything for you, Lisbon.'_ He said it and meant it years ago. Their failure to conceive was a wedge between them, isolating each in a bell jar of sadness and frustration. The threat to their relationship unsettled him. Somehow he'd solve this problem for her. For them. He resolved to research their options. He'd do it alone for the time being, lest he raise toxic hopes that might not pan out.

Right now, breakfast and support were all he could offer. They had a quiet meal and talked about the upcoming meetings. Conversation didn't touch upon kids. Of course it didn't.

 **CIB, Sacramento**

"–Director Hightower."

"–Madeline."

"–Teresa. Patrick." After they shook Hightower motioned them to a couch by windows that overlooked the Capitol grounds. As director she had an office at the Capitol as well as the CIB. She chose an upholstered chair opposite them. "We're waiting for two more." Her aide placed a tray with coffee and tea on the table between them. At the flash of silver on Jane's finger she instantly checked Lisbon's left hand. An elegant eyebrow rose. "Finally took the plunge?!"

Jane smiled brilliantly, "Finally free of government shackles." Hightower glanced to Lisbon.

Lisbon shrugged, "Jane keeps things interesting," nonchalance belied by her smile.

"Small wedding?"

"A, uh, civil ceremony–" Lisbon started awkwardly.

Jane smoothly interjected, "–to make it permanent before she got cold feet."

"Or came to her senses."

Perfectly untroubled, "We'll have a church ceremony later with family and friends, Madeline."

"I hope to join you."

"Would I miss the chance to dance _with_ you instead of _for_ you, Director?"

Dryly, "Like you ever danced for anyone," then turned as others entered.

Jane murmured just loud enough for Lisbon to hear, "And she would be wrong."

Lisbon replied under her breath, "Funny, never seemed that way to me."

They rose to shake hands.

"–Rigsby, Van Pelt."

"–Jane. Boss." Rigsby then sheepishly said to Hightower, "Sorry, Boss."

"–Grace, Wayne."

"–Ter – Lisbon, Jane." Van Pelt's jaw dropped as she espied the ring on Lisbon's finger. "Congratulations!" She nudged Rigsby.

"Oh. Congratulations. –When?"

"In Reno before we drove to Sacramento." Jane noticed Van Pelt's slight frown. "Church ceremony later this year with family and friends." Her frown vanished.

Hightower cleared her throat. "Now that you're in Sacramento permanently," she paused until Lisbon and Jane nodded, "you can catch up later. You asked to meet?"

Lisbon and Jane explained their interest in consulting on difficult cases. After verifying they weren't interested in full time CIB positions, Hightower asked about their agency's services. She nodded appreciatively at their terms, knowing that would make it easier to hire a private firm – _their_ private firm. She shook her head knowingly when Jane explained they only charged out of pocket costs when they could solve a case by reading the file.

Van Pelt and Rigsby now handled general serious crimes as well as cyber-crime and arson, respectively. Their teams were the ones most likely to get cases that warranted extra help. When asked, Lisbon said she and Jane could consult separately if necessary. Jane clarified that he would work only with Van Pelt or Rigsby if it was just him. It was easier to cast it as his preference rather than explain his promise to Lisbon.

The meeting ended mid-morning. The former SCU teammates vowed to get together socially soon.

 **FBI, Sacramento**

"Teresa."

"Gabe." Lisbon extended her hand. Mancini took her hand and shook it warmly, his left hand on her arm.

"Mancini."

Mancini gave Jane a quick, stiff shake. "Jane." They took seats facing Mancini across his desk. Focusing on Lisbon, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Jane and I have our own agency and want to offer our services."

He frowned at Jane. "Thought you owed Abbott work for several years."

"We do. This is separate," Jane clarified.

Lisbon took lead. "We're technically active status on hiatus. Makes it easier. We're still FBI, still have security clearance."

Mancini couldn't help a skeptical glance at Jane at mention of security clearance. "Wouldn't that be double-dipping?"

"No. We're consultants for Abbott and would be for you. Daily rate plus expenses. Or the FBI per diem if that's easier. We only charge if the case is closed."

Mancini sat quietly, chewing that over. He liked and respected Lisbon, but had to think hard about whether he'd ever let Jane work for him.

Jane stood. "If you don't mind, I'll leave you two to talk it over. I have another commitment." Mancini grunted his acknowledgment and Jane quietly left. Lisbon would get a far more favorable reception without the ill will between Mancini and Jane clouding the picture.

Jane exited the elevator one floor lower and walked down a short hallway. He glanced around and headed to the far corner.

"Hey, Cho."

The man looked up from a deskful of printouts and nodded. "Jane. Why are you here?"

Jane smiled. _Deja vu._ "Slumming it. I'm a free man."

Cho grunted, a slight easing of impassivity his equivalent of a warm welcome. He rose and motioned Jane to follow. They prepared coffee and tea and returned to Cho's desk. He leaned back and took a moment to look Jane over.

"Got hitched," noticing the different ring. "You look less ... crazy than usual."

Reacting to the first, Jane's smile was the sun emerging from a cloud. "Yes. Bad karma finally expired."

"Why are you here?" he repeated.

"Lisbon's pitching our services to Mancini for hard cases."

Cho's forehead creased. "Likes her. You, not so much."

Humor glinted in his eyes. "You work for him. Started out with a brawl."

"Don't remind me."

"Rigs and Grace said you're heading a new counter-terrorism group?"

Cho nodded. "Just started."

Jane looked around. "All by yourself?"

"Team's at a meeting. Should be back–" he glanced at his watch, "now." His team members straggled in.

A glad voice rang out, "Jane!" Wylie grabbed Jane's outstretched hand in an enthusiastic double-handed shake which Jane accepted with grace. "What're you doing here? We're going to lunch, wanna come?" Wylie took a breath and looked at Cho, "Uh, if that's okay with you, Cho."

"Sure." Cho rose and grabbed his suit jacket. "You'd meet eventually." _Jane's a walking Rorschach test. Should be interesting._

Six agents and one consultant gathered at the elevator. Jane texted Lisbon his lunch plans. She'd hoped to lunch with Mancini to reinforce good relations with the SacFBI, an easier task without Jane.

Cho handled the introductions. "Patrick Jane – Agent Asiya Muhammad."

"Pleased to meet you," Jane nodded courteously.

The small, serious woman scrutinized him sharply before taking his hand. "Agent Jane," she said, giving him the benefit of doubt despite his decidedly non-regulation appearance.

Easily, "Just Jane. Not an agent."

Cho started, "This is Omar–"

"–Hassan. We found your rug for you!" Jane exclaimed happily, recalling the case from a decade ago. "I hope your family has fared well?"

Hassan was surprised and pleased that he remembered. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Jane. The CBI – you – inspired me to join law enforcement." His diction was slightly formal as was common among ESL speakers.

Jane sidestepped the praise and focused on the next man.

The tall man stepped forward without waiting for an introduction. "Aber Ojara." His teeth flashed a brilliant contrast in a wide smile. He looked Jane over and cryptically pronounced, "Anansi." And then, "It will be very interesting to know you, Jane."

Jane returned the smile. Though tall and imposing like Rigsby, the amused gleam in Ojara's eyes suggested a kindred spirit. "Promises to be my pleasure."

Cho introduced a noticeably younger woman last. "Jane, Michelle Vega. Vega, Jane."

She presented her hand. Briskly, "Jane. Good meeting you."

"Likewise, Agent."

Discussion over lunch initially centered on the meeting and the team's counter terrorism mission. Jane's presence was slightly awkward for the three agents who didn't know him.

Vega took the plunge. Wylie had shared stories about the Austin bureau. Cho figured prominently but so did Jane. She decided this was the perfect opportunity to sort fact from exaggeration.

"Mr. Jane."

"Yes, Agent Vega?"

"Just 'Vega.' – Wylie told me about cases Cho's team solved in Austin. He mentioned how you can read people. If you don't mind, how do you do that?"

Jane smiled and exchanged glances with Cho. _Deja vu yet again._ "'If you don't mind,' it's easier to show than tell. If you'd volunteer...?"

Vega ignored Wylie's slightly anxious glance. "Sure. I'm game."

Cho leaned back, arms crossed. Ojara leaned forward, expression bright with curiosity. Hassan grinned. Muhammad frowned slightly but paid rapt attention.

"You come from a military family, father most likely," nodding at her confirming reaction. "There was no son to continue the tradition. You and he were close and you followed in his footsteps. Military academy.

"West Point."

Jane frowned a little. "You dropped out when he got ill." Quietly, "He died – I'm sorry for your loss. The military evoked too many painful memories associated with your father so you didn't go back. Smart, assertive, and driven to achieve, you graduated college early near the top of your class. You got three years of experience with the ... DC PD then applied to the FBI. You left the East Coast after Quantico for a fresh start. Your interest in counter terrorism is personal, connected to family roots in Puerto Rico. FALN, then." Cho leaned forward and caught Jane's eye. Jane smoothly cut it short, "Is that enough?"

Slightly subdued she swallowed and said, "I, uh, appreciate the demonstration. Still don't understand how."

Jane sipped his tea. "Micro expressions, body language. Educated guesswork. In adversarial situations I make challenging statements to evoke reactions." Wylie coughed as his soda went down the wrong way.

Ojara interjected, "What did you do before law enforcement, Jane?"

"Psychic readings," he smiled.

Ojara nodded thoughtfully. Hassan and Muhammad laughed, assuming it was a joke. Conversation turned to FBI shop talk as they relaxed into easy camaraderie. The group walked back to resume their meeting, leaving Jane and Cho in the bullpen.

"Jane. Stay and talk?"

Jane verified there was no text from Lisbon. "If there's tea."

Back at Cho's desk with their beverages, "What's up, Cho?"

"What's your take?"

Jane sipped his tea. "You're satisfied with their vetting or you wouldn't have hired them. Good choices. The varied backgrounds are an edge over the usual FBI types." He tilted his head, eyes narrowed. "Each one has a personal interest in terrorism. Traumatic. Why take that risk?"

"Want the dedication." Cho stared at him expressionlessly. "Paid off for the SCU." Jane looked aside. "See any problems?"

"Limited exposure, hard to tell." Cho blinked at Jane's modesty. Then Jane shrugged and continued. "But each seems centered, dealing well. You no doubt got assurances they'll mind the legalities. Within the group, Muhammad has issues with Hassan – not personally, but as a male Muslim. Ojara will be your most creative along with Wylie. Ojara may be hard to control." Cho snorted at the irony of that coming from Jane. "You know Wylie needs field experience. I agree he'll get there. Vega is brash but eager to learn. She'll push you as far as you let her. Oh–" he smiled, "be prepared for Wylie and Vega to get together. She'll fight it, but I think biology will win."

Cho groaned deep in his throat. "Another Rigsby and Van Pelt?"

Jane clapped him on the back, "Not _that_ bad. Just don't be surprised."

Cho switched gears. "Interested in counter-terrorism?"

After a moment, "Probably not. Kind of impersonal." He pulled out his vibrating cell phone and looked at the message. "Gotta go. Congratulations on the position and your team."

"Thanks," Cho nodded as Jane strode off.

Lisbon was waiting, SUV running, when Jane slid into the passenger seat. They deferred conversation till she was on the highway.

"How'd it go with Mancini?"

"Good. It was good. He's open to hiring us if need arises." She glanced at him and flicked his arm. " _You_ have to play nice. That red glass bead stunt still rankles."

Jane huffed. "That was three years ago. He needs to get a life."

"He has one." She stopped abruptly.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Something's bothering you." He leaned toward her trying to better read her face. "What, Teresa?"

She swallowed, knowing he wouldn't let it go. Dryly, "He showed me a couple dozen baby pictures during lunch. Nice kid." Jane nodded, then slid his hand down her right arm and laced fingers in lieu of words.

She cleared her throat. "How's Cho?"

"Fine. Had lunch with his team. Good group. Unusual."

"In what way?"

"Cho. Wylie. Omar Hassan, who you–"

"–The young Iraqi trying to get his family's fortune back?"

"Mmhm."

"That was years ago."

"All grown up. Your example inspired him to become a cop – well, FBI now." He continued, "And Aber Ojara, Asiya Muhammad and Michelle Vega."

Lisbon looked his way as she paused for a stoplight. "Not your typical FBI team."

"Nope. Two Muslim immigrants from the Middle East, one Christian immigrant from Africa, a Hispanic American, and Wylie. Cho figures the variety will be an edge in CT."

"Smart." She glanced at him again just before the light changed. "What else?"

"Hmm?"

"There's something more. What?"

He looked out the passenger window. "Looks to become a good team. Tight." Softer, looking at her, "Like the SCU."

"No surprise with Cho." After a bit, "Those were good days. Everyone's moved on."

Deliberately cheerful, "Everyone's in Sacramento again. Easy to keep in touch..." He trailed off as Lisbon answered her cell.

"Lisbon. ... Yes we are. ... Give me the overview? ... Tomorrow. Nine a.m.? ... We'll be there. Thanks for thinking of us." She tossed her cell into the cup holder. "Got a case!" she exclaimed with a grin.

"Which is?"

"Evan Donaldson, Santa Barbara PD. The city administrator's young daughter is missing, believed kidnapped. They want our help."

Jane smiled in shared delight. "Time for some detecting."

"Thank God."

 **Lisbon and Jane, Santa Barbara, Tuesday**

Lisbon and Jane stepped out of the heat into the air-conditioned Santa Barbara headquarters.

"Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane for Captain Donaldson," Lisbon announced at the front desk of the Santa Barbara PD headquarters, having flown down the night before.

After a quick call, "Down that hall, elevator to the third floor. Investigative Division is to the left. They'll direct you from there."

An employee directed them to Donaldson's office. He motioned them in.

"Agen– Teresa Lisbon, good to see you again." He rose to shake her hand.

"Evan, long time."

Donaldson turned to her companion. "Mr. Jane, I presume?"

"Pleased to meet you."

"Why are we here, how can we help?"

"Our city administrator's daughter has been missing since Sunday. Sgt. Collins heads my best unit. They've followed up on every lead but we've still got nothing. Ransom note came this morning. The parents are paying the ransom and we hope to nail the perp when he gets the money. If that doesn't work or the kidnapper doesn't release the girl, we have nothing to go on. We need fresh eyes, a different perspective. Whole thing is 'off.'"

"How do you want to proceed?"

"In parallel. Follow me."

Donaldson led the way to the bullpen. "Ms. Lisbon, Mr. Jane–" he introduced them to the men sitting around a conference table, "–Sgt. Collins. Detectives Miller, Juarez, Halston. Detective Jefferson's with the family." The men nodded or said 'hi.' "Lisbon and Jane are consulting on this case at my request, just in case the girl is not returned after paying the ransom. They'll work in parallel to your efforts." Lisbon took a seat. Jane remained standing, unobtrusively stepping closer to read the crime scene board. "Collins, bring them up to speed."

"City Administrator Englewood's ten year old daughter, Rory, went missing after church on Sunday. The parents said goodbye and left for a political event. Rory walked toward the maid Mrs. Hernandez, who was waiting within sight a short distance away. She never got there. The maid searched then called the parents fifteen minutes later, hoping she was with them. A more thorough search by patrol officers turned up nothing. We issued an Amber Alert to no avail."

"Since then?" Lisbon asked.

"Ransom e-mail was received at the city administration building at 8 this morning." He nodded to Juarez.

Juarez soberly reported, "IT traced the message to a public library computer. No surveillance. Staff didn't notice anyone out of the ordinary. Anyone could have sent it. We dusted for prints hoping the perp didn't wipe them clean. No hits."

"Proof of life?"

"Here." Collins angled the laptop screen toward Lisbon and pressed 'Enter.' Jane stood behind Lisbon's chair to watch. The video showed a little girl, blindfolded, holding the latest edition of the Santa Barbara News-Press. She wasn't visibly injured, but looked confused and anxious. Her lips were moving but there was no sound.

Jane, "Audio?"

"No. Typed message at the end." It came up as he finished. It said: 'Leave $250,000 in small, unmarked bills in the storm drain at the end of Calverson Drive by noon if you want your daughter back. Comply and she'll be released tomorrow in a public area."

"Storm drain?" Lisbon asked.

"It's usually dry. The parents are going to pay the ransom. We're staking out the location, but it doesn't look promising. Deserted area. Hard to monitor unseen."

Jane spoke next. "Any theories about why she was targeted? Threats, enemies? Is Englewood known to be wealthy? And what about the maid?"

"Parents can't think of anyone. Some political friction but kidnapping is way too far for that. The family's affluent but not rich. No flashy public displays of wealth. The maid's been with the family a long time. They swear she couldn't have anything to do with this. Background checks on the maid, parents, family members, neighbors and friends turned up zip."

Lisbon said, "We need to go over your case file, then see where she disappeared. We need to speak to the maid and the parents, in their home."

Jane added, "May I have a copy of that video? And can your men send a 360 of the drop site to our cell phones?"

Collins gave the thumb drive to Lisbon to copy. "We're planning the drop now. Miller's headed to the Englewood's and can take you by the church. Take the file. Leave it with Miller when you're done. I'll have a scan of the drop site sent. Keep me in the loop with your efforts."

"Will do," Lisbon answered.

They left with Miller and followed in their rented SUV. Jane skimmed the file while Lisbon drove, careful to keep Miller in sight.

"Anything significant?

Jane shook his head. "Not from the file."

She grimaced and said, "Donaldson's gut is right. Whole thing is off."

"Thoughts?"

"The girl was walking to the maid within sight. How did she lose her? Awfully lucky for a kidnapper to be around at some random moment when the girl is away from the parents and the maid. How could the girl be grabbed without attracting attention? And what kidnapper waits three days to issue a ransom note?"

Looking at the 360-degree view of the drop site, "The storm drain is an interesting choice. The abductor knows the area. I'm suspicious about the lack of audio in the video. Why wouldn't the kidnapper goad the parents with the voice of their little girl? And the ransom note – 'comply and she'll be released.' Formal. Educated. Not your average low-life."

"Donaldson's men are sharp enough to pick up on this. Why are they going with the kidnapping-for-ransom theory?"

"They have nothing better."

"What's the motive? Why take the girl if not for money?"

"Answer that and we've solved the case." Jane set aside the file as they pulled into the church parking lot.

The area was cordoned off with yellow and black crime scene tape. Miller showed them where the parents were when they left, then went to where Mrs. Hernandez had been standing. There was a clear line of sight, ignoring any crowds. Rory would have walked past a clump of tall bushes to reach the maid. Miller confirmed the PD had checked, but the thick grass around the bushes yielded nothing. A nearby wooded area was searched to ensure the child hadn't simply wandered off. The three gratefully returned to their vehicles to get out of the sizzling weather. Jane drove so Lisbon could read the file.

Miller handled the introductions. All were on-edge two hours before the ransom was to be paid. The money was packed in a cloth duffel bag. Miller buried the tracking device he brought in the bottom.

"Mr. and Mrs. Englewood, I'd like to ask some questions." Lisbon sat on a chair facing the couple on the couch. Jane surreptitiously read their reactions while browsing photos placed around the living room.

Mr. Englewood asked sharply, "We already told the police everything we know. We're paying the ransom, what's the point?"

Soothingly, "Please, Mr. Englewood. We're taking a fresh look at everything. Until your daughter is returned, we can't risk missing any possible lead."

He sighed and regrouped. "I'm – Please understand how terrible this is."

Lisbon continued, low key. "Tell us about Mrs. Hernandez. Sergeant Collins says you're confident she had nothing to do with this."

Mrs. Englewood answered. "We _are_ sure. Maria's been with us for 15 years, before Rory was born. She loves Rory like a daughter. If you want to speak with her–"

"Thank you, we will in a few minutes. Can either of you think of anyone who'd have reason to hurt you or your family?"

Both shook their heads. Frowning, the man said, "We've been wracking our brains since Sunday. Nothing."

"Anything seem 'off' with a neighbor or acquaintance? Any unresolved family disputes, the kind that would leave lingering ill will?"

"No. My family all lives in New Mexico."

Mrs. Englewood answered for her family. "My parents passed several years ago. My older brother–" she stood and pointed to a photo on the mantle, "lives in Oxnard. He's a wonderful uncle to Rory." A frown flickered over her expression then vanished. "My younger sister is in San Francisco."

Jane brought over a photo of a 40's-something Caucasian man seated with a group of Asian people. "There are a bunch of photos of your daughter with this man. Is this your brother? –I didn't catch his name."

"Yes." She fluttered a hand distractedly. "Sorry, I hadn't mentioned. Richard Seward."

Jane quirked an eyebrow. "Overseas trip?"

"Earlier this year. The Philippines, I think. He travels to Japan and the Philippines at least once a year." Jane nodded and continued browsing.

Lisbon resumed. "How about service people? Gardener, delivery people, anyone who regularly comes to your home."

The parents exchanged glances. The father responded, "Tommy Jenkins, a neighborhood boy, does our yard work. We live quietly and don't regularly hire service people. I keep any political activities away from our home."

"One last question. The people you know may not bear your family ill will. But do any of them have criminal contacts – friends, relatives, whatever?"

The Englewood's exchanged hopeless glances. He sighed and shrugged. "No. We lead quiet lives, don't run in circles that would have contact with the ... rougher elements." He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I _wish_ we could help but there's nothing like that."

Mrs. Englewood hesitantly asked, "Do you want to talk to Maria – Mrs. Hernandez now?"

Lisbon glanced around. "I think my partner already is, thank you." She found Jane in the kitchen finishing a cup of tea.

"... you for answering my questions, Mrs. Hernandez. We're doing our best to find Rory."

Jane tipped his head for Lisbon to follow him out. "Let's go. I have a hunch I want to check out," he told her quietly.

Back in the living room, "Jane and I are done for now. Thank you." To Miller she added quietly, "We're going to pursue some ideas. We'll keep Sgt. Collins informed. Appreciate your help, Detective."

"Yes, m'am."

They hurried to the SUV. Lisbon started the vehicle so they could turn on air conditioning.

"What do we have?" Lisbon asked immediately.

"You first." She flicked his arm for making her start. He caught her hand and squeezed gently. "Hey. I want your unbiased take. Keeps me from getting ahead of myself."

"Like you're easily swayed." Her objection lacked bite. "None of them are lying. But there's ... something there they sense but won't let themselves know. Mrs. Englewood especially."

His gaze was warm with appreciation. "Care to go into the fake psychic business?"

She scowled. "Lay it out, Jane. We're running out of time. This isn't about money, is it?"

He exhaled slowly. "If I'm right, Richard Seward abducted his niece. Mrs. Englewood had a fleeting expression of horror and fear even as she lauded him as the perfect uncle."

"You think he's a pedophile. What do we have to back it up?"

"The abduction could only happen if Rory went willingly with someone she knew, someone who would know they'd be at church but who wouldn't stand out if noticed. Sunday was probably just one of many times he considered it."

"What else?"

"The video. Tried lip reading but couldn't quite get it. He couldn't risk audio because she _knows_ him. Likely told her the blindfold and video were part of a game. She looked confused and worried – not terrified. And I'm suspicious of those trips to Asia."

She frowned. "Might be innocent."

"Might not be. Southeast Asia's notorious for exploiting children. That photo didn't look like the Philippines."

She wondered how Jane could tell without doubting that he did. "All supposition. We need evidence to convince the PD." She ran through the possibilities. "He'd keep her in a private location. We can check property records for an isolated place. Also see if there's a paper trail for his last trip to Asia – flight itinerary, hotel receipts. Did he go where he said he did, or was it a cover story for a sex trip?"

Thoughtfully, "Sex would be an obsession. He likely ran afoul of the law at some point."

"Background checks didn't turn up anything. Sealed juvenile record?"

Slowly, "That would explain why it isn't a conscious memory for Mrs. Englewood. She'd have been very young if he first acted on his impulses as a juvenile. She would have felt the tension, known her brother was in trouble without knowing details."

"Jane, building a case can wait. We need to find her while she's still alive. I'll see if Collins can get us a list of properties Seward owns."

"I'll see if the Englewood's know anything." Jane went back to the house to ask. They didn't know. Their umbrage at the implication was exceeded only by their concern for their daughter. He was back in five minutes.

It was 30 minutes until the ransom drop and Collins was unavailable. Donaldson was in a meeting. Detective Juarez took her call just before leaving for the ransom stakeout. Ten minutes later he called to say IT was backed up with high priority work and he didn't have the authority to pull rank.

Lisbon banged her fist on the steering wheel. "What part of urgent can't they understand?"

Jane got his cell and dialed. He got voice mail for SA Van Pelt. He dialed again. "Wylie, Jane. I need a favor. ... Child kidnapping in Santa Barbara. We're working with the PD but can't get information fast enough. ... I realize that. If we don't a child will be murdered ..." After a hurried conversation with Cho Wylie promised to search for the needed info. Cho deemed it cooperation with another law enforcement agency on an open criminal case and thus legal.

Adrenaline made them edgy from the need to _act_ with zero opportunity to do so. After a half hour of stewing Lisbon suggested grabbing fast food to fill the time and their bellies. The weather finally broke. Fat drops splattered the windshield as they waited in the drive-through line. Thunder and lightening ushered in a deluge melting the world into gray haze.

They returned to the Santa Barbara PD headquarters to wait. Collins and his team were at the ransom drop.

Wylie called at 1 p.m. with the locations of three properties owned by Seward. He apologized for the delay explaining that ownership of two of the properties was masked by a trust. The link to Seward was the same mailing address as his Oxnard residence. Wylie promised to get the rest of the information they wanted soon.

Lisbon and Jane ruled out populous Oxnard. That left a mountain property two hours east of Santa Barbara, and a beach-front place north of Santa Barbara. They chose the less populous mountain location. Everyone was still out. Lisbon convinced Donaldson's administrative assistant to get a patrol unit assigned as backup. The assistant would also have Oxnard police check the beach front property.

The Collins team returned to the bullpen after two miserable hours in pouring rain. The dry storm drain had become a raging torrent, the duffel bag nowhere to be seen. The tracking device fell silent minutes after it started pouring. As feared, they were left with nothing. By the time he called for an update, Lisbon, Jane and the cops were within minutes of the cabin. Collins was unimpressed: All they'd proven was that the man owned three properties. Nonetheless he had no problem with them checking out the cabin.

They parked well out of sight and walked. The car parked near the cabin was registered to Seward. It was empty. A heated, whispered argument ensued between Lisbon and the cops. She steam-rolled their half-hearted objections with one sentence describing her experience and FBI status. Rory Englewood had been kidnapped over 50 hours ago. Delay could be lethal.

The two cops moved silently to cover the side and back doors as ordered. Lisbon crept up the steep, slippery slope to the front door, gun drawn. Jane hung back, shadowing her. She shouted. The three kicked in the doors. Seward startled, then slammed the door against Lisbon as it rebounded. He drew his leg back to smash the dazed woman. Jane rushed in and knocked him off balance. Seward shoved Jane out the door. The cops tackled Seward. Lisbon held him at gunpoint until they cuffed him.

The three stood panting. Gathering her wits, Lisbon growled, "Hold him while I clear this place." She cleared the four other rooms. Rory was in the last room on the bed. The girl was unconscious, but pulse and respiration were regular and strong.

Back in the main room, "Call an ambulance. And brief Sgt. Collins. –You okay?" Both nodded. "Thanks for the backup. You saved a girl's life."

She realized Jane was nowhere to be seen. Then he limped through the front door, dirty, disheveled and bruised.

"The girl. Is she here?" He swallowed with difficulty. "Is – is she alive?"

Shaking from adrenaline she gave him a brilliant smile. "Alive. Unconscious, but alive."

Jane sighed in relief and sagged against the wall. Lisbon drew him over to a chair and gently pushed him down.

Turning to the cops she pointed at Seward. "Officers, arrest this piece of scum and read him his rights. He'll be facing some serious charges."

"Yes, m'am."

 **Police Department, Santa Barbara, Wednesday**

"...ended in rescuing Rory Englewood, daughter of our City Administrator thanks to the work of the Santa Barbara Police Department. Captain Donaldson and Sgt. Collins will take your questions." Reporters jockeyed for position, hoping to get called first. A few curiously eyed the two strangers who stood near the back. Members of neither the PD nor media, they somehow looked familiar.

Lisbon said, sotto voce, "Just like the Bertram-Shettrick dog and pony show. Never changes, does it?" Purple bruises marred her face where the door had slammed her.

Jane whispered back, "Except this guy's not partnered with a serial killer. –Didn't we already have this conversation?" He sported a black eye and numerous bruises. His left arm carefully protected battered ribs.

"Hey. At least we're not up there making a Bertram look good."

"Saved a girl's life."

"Think she'll be okay?"

"Eventually. At least she has that chance. –C'mon, let's get going and make our flight."

Donaldson's administrative assistant mailed them the newspaper article the next day. Their names were mentioned in passing, second paragraph from the end.


	7. Chapter 7- What Do We Got?

**A/N: Warning. There is extensive material about the difficulties of adoption.**

* * *

 **Chapter 7: What Do We Got?**

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Thursday**

Lisbon bent down and kissed her husband's stubbly cheek, careful to avoid the bruises.

"Mmm." Jane turned his head and pulled her closer.

"Hey!" she squawked, bracing herself to keep from tumbling onto him.

He blinked sleepily and noticed she was dressed and made-up. "Oh. Sure you don't want me along?"

Patting his arm, "Uh-uh. Looking beat up won't help sell our services." Make-up hid the bruises on her face. "Cops around here know you well enough already." She leaned over and kissed his lips this time. "Let those bruises heal, Calamity Jane."

He huffed and pinched her butt when she turned to leave. She yelped and skipped a step. Her smile undermined the glare she threw him. The front door closed softly a minute later.

Jane rolled onto his back and stretched languorously, wincing at the pull on severely bruised ribs. After 13 grueling years his current reality staggered him. Free. _Hell, alive!_ Married to the woman he loved. A joyful home (bittersweet, _again_ ), instead of a murder scene. Even their make-shift SCU family was nearby. Regret for his family's death, for _contributing_ to their deaths, was permanent. However the crushing guilt was all but gone. _I choose life_.

Now to somehow resolve the one problem shadowing their future.

 **Lisbon, Sacramento**

Lisbon was off to meet with local law enforcement contacts. She mused about the case as she drove.

Jane behaved, proving he _could_ toe the line when he chose. _Should be p.o.'d about years of extra paperwork._ She shrugged. Context was everything. _Maybe that was the only way he could cope_. She shuddered at how reckless he'd been when he first joined the CBI. Thankfully those days were behind them. Jane wasn't the problem now.

She had hoped having their own agency would sidestep bureaucratic hassles. It might for private cases, but most of her contacts were in government. Far from escaping red tape, the snarl was greater. She had no standing, no favors to call in to cut through it. _Of course_ random bosses would question their unorthodox methods. Yeah, she had a good reputation. But bureaucrats remembered like elephants when something might threaten their little fiefdoms. The harmless-looking, three-piece wearing, curly blond CBI consultant had wreaked havoc in law-enforcement for years, even discounting rumors about Red John's demise. Every case would mean persuading anew that they would solve the crime without making anyone look bad.

And resources! The last case was sobering. Evan Donaldson worked cases hands on, and knew and liked her. He would have approved the search of property records she and Jane needed. Only ... he'd been busy. She and Jane could have searched public databases, but those were slow and limited. It took calling Van Pelt and then Wylie to get the data needed. Leaning on their friends for favors would get old fast. And she refused to ask them to do illegal searches for private cases.

It was sheer luck Donaldson's admin finagled cops to accompany them. She and Jane had no right to break down a door and invade Seward's cabin. The officers let them sidestep legal trouble and even that was a stretch. Only imminent danger to the child justified their actions. As a PI she was allowed to investigate crimes, persons, and the location of property, and, to secure evidence. She could use her weapon only to protect a person incidental to an investigation – they weren't body guards. (She chortled at the fleeting notion of Jane as bodyguard.) Adhering to the legal constraints of a PI would go against every instinct and twenty years' experience as a cop.

She unconsciously fingered her bruised cheek. It was just the two of them. Jane had kept her from being kicked and stomped and was shoved down the hill for his efforts. Hiring muscle for back-up would be a far cry from the built-in, trained support of a law-enforcement team. They couldn't hope to find people even a fraction as talented and committed as Cho, Rigsby or Van Pelt.

Lisbon shook off her reflections when she arrived at her first appointment. As with making rabbit stew, first you get the rabbit – the work. They'd address the rest later.

 **Jane, Sacramento**

Jane luxuriated in taking it easy. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't driven – first by his father's greed, then by the need to support his family and later by his own ambition, and finally by vengeance. It was singularly pleasant to follow his whims absent internal or external pressures. He'd enjoy the lull while his bruises faded.

His first task: Making appointments. Jane called Sacramento reproductive clinics until he found one with a last-minute cancellation that afternoon. Fortified by tea, he used Teresa's computer to read up on reproductive options and adoption. He disliked computer work but was capable enough when necessary. He also arranged meetings with the county child protective services agency and a few private adoption agencies the next day. It was a troubling two hours.

His cell chimed just as he was finishing up. Business calls were automatically routed to Lisbon, then his cell, and last the receptionist if neither answered. Lisbon must have turned hers off while meeting with potential clients. He put it on speaker.

"Patrick Jane."

"'Morning, Jane. You called but didn't leave a message. I was at a conference."

"Hey, Grace. Needed a tech favor. Wylie helped."

"Oh, good. –I have an invitation for you and Teresa. And a favor to ask."

"Ben's birthday?"

"How'd you–" _When will I learn?_ "Yeah. Party is Saturday afternoon and we'd love for you to come. A bunch of Ben's friends are invited and I wonder if you'd be willing to show them some tricks?"

"Ben'll be seven?"

"Uh-huh."

"Happy to. Send gift ideas. Can't come empty-handed."

"Entertaining them is your gift. We'll have time to visit since they're old enough to occupy themselves. Wayne rented a trampoline and there are games and stuff."

"Sarah Harridan coming?" _Sarah who's held a grudge ever since I had Rigsby fake his death?_

"Sara _Cartwright_." Understanding perfectly, "She and Jacob will stop by but they won't stay. Just us four."

"Cho?"

"Can't come. Work."

"We'll be there. –Before you go, refresh my memory. Computer searches can be cleared by clicking 'History' on the top toolbar and then 'Clear History' on the pull-down menu?"

"Yeah, just mark the types of searches you want cleared. Do I want to know?"

"See you Saturday."

Warmth flooded him at how _normal_ it was, how much he'd missed everyday life since– He blinked and abandoned that thought. _I think Teresa will be okay going–_ Another call interrupted him. He glanced at the display thinking Grace had forgotten something, but didn't recognize the number. "Patrick Jane."

"This is Sergeant Thornbush, LAPD." Brusquely, "Lieutenant Zednikova had me call to ask your help on a case. Said there's no charge if you solve it by reading the file."

"Only expenses." Jane frowned at his tone and nickel-and-dime attitude. _Still..._ He glanced at the clock to see if he'd have time before his appointment. "Fax or e-mail the file and I'll look it over. No point traveling to LA unless necessary."

Pleased, "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

After providing fax and e-mail details Jane terminated the call with a grimace, hoping they could avoid working with him.

Ninety minutes later Jane tossed the sheaf of printouts on the desk and sighed. He had a good idea who did it from information in the file. The only remotely interesting question was whether LAPD detectives were really that dim or whether Thornbush was just lazy. Lisbon called at lunchtime from San Francisco. He briefed her on LAPD's request and said he'd call Thornbush to get it off their desks. At her suggestion, Jane would e-mail his insights instead and send a copy to the lieutenant to get credit. He promised to fill her in on the case that night.

Jane little cared he couldn't bill for solving the case. He enjoyed solving puzzles. That didn't extend to being a patsy for the lazy. He cheered himself with the thought that they could change the policy once their agency was getting steady work. Before leaving the office he prepared and mailed an invoice for their Santa Barbara case – $5,000 for their fee plus expenses. He wouldn't shove the administrivia off on Teresa now that it was _their_ agency (when she was a creature of the CBI, paperwork came with the job). _Maybe the receptionist can be persuaded in the future._ He had just enough time for lunch before the clinic appointment.

A few hours later Jane left the clinic with more information but no answers. Once he'd gotten past the clinic's SOP – 'We _always_ work with couples together as this is very much a shared problem,' etc., etc. – he managed to work toward the information he needed: Whether their problem with conception might lie with him. The doctor largely confirmed what he'd gathered from the Internet. A year of unprotected sex without conception was good reason to seek medical help. Men generate sperm throughout their lives. Glitches in male fertility are incomparably easier to diagnose and treat than those of women. There are also possible incompatibilities between mates, but doctors first focus on each partner's fertility individually. The doctor stressed that the help he could offer was severely limited by working with Jane alone. The last step was a sperm sample for analysis. The dog-eared Playboy and Penthouse magazines provided in the small room were more ridiculous than arousing. He ignored those in favor of moments stored in his memory palace between him and Teresa. He'd learn the results in a follow-up appointment on Monday.

It was late afternoon. Lisbon shed boots and jacket and stowed her sidearm in the gun safe. She ambled into the living room and ruffled his hair.

"Whatcha watching?" When he looked back over his shoulder she stole a kiss.

"Nothing as good as that." He clicked off the TV. "National politics have gotten worse. Bigger circus than ever." He followed her into the kitchen.

"What are we doing for dinner?" She pulled a beer from the refrigerator.

"All ready to go," he said, turning on the oven. "Done in an hour." He got a soda for himself.

They returned to the living room and shared the details of the day. Jane omitted any mention of reproduction. Lisbon was pleasantly surprised that he'd sent the invoice and commiserated with him about Thornbush. She mentioned her PI agency concerns but didn't belabor them.

"Time consuming having to stop by all the PD's and FBI offices," she grumbled.

Jane shrugged, snuggling closer on the couch. "Getting work hinges on personal connections. 'Least till word-of-mouth kicks in."

"Good thing I'm not in marketing."

He didn't have the heart to disagree when she was tired and grumpy from a long day of doing just that. He'd devoted many evenings to marketing psychic services a lifetime ago. Ironically, the TV show was supposed to be his big break.

"Grace returned my call."

"Huh?"

"When we needed that search of property records. She was out of town."

"So?"

"We're invited to Ben's birthday party Saturday. I accepted. That okay with you?"

She took a breath then a swig of her beer. Flatly, "Fine."

"I'm entertaining the kids, but you could get out of it," he said while idly stroking her arm.

"They're friends. I'm Ben's godmother for heaven's sake. Can't believe I forgot his birthday."

"Your choice. Grace sent Ben's wish list. Want me to pick up a gift tomorrow?"

"If you don't mind." She rose and set the table. They made an early evening of it.

 **Jane, Sacramento, Friday**

Jane left his last appointment and stopped at a coffee shop for tea and a sandwich. The glib ' _Of course there's always adoption'_ misrepresented reality beyond recognition. _Though why should adopting a child be fast or easy? World might be better if everyone had to prove they'd be decent parents before having kids._ A humorless smile accompanied his follow-on thought, _Alex would never have qualified..._

He glumly went over the information as he ate, barely tasting his food. There were four major paths to adoption. Child protective services. Adopting domestically through a private adoption agency. Adopting internationally through a private agency. And working directly with a pregnant woman. None was easy.

Child protective services placed children in foster care to remove them from bad situations. CPS social workers were required to work with the child's parent or relatives to try to reunite the family, so it was typically at least a year before a child was available to be adopted. The children usually came from horrendous situations – addicted parents, abuse, extreme neglect. They weren't placed for adoption straight off, so they were typically 'older.' That was inexpressibly sad because 'older' was as young as three – past the baby stage. Children with severe disabilities sometimes ended up as wards of CPS. And sibling groups. (If placing one child with a rough background was hard, placing a group was often impossible.) He stared outside unseeingly. Was it terrible that he strongly, _strongly_ wanted a healthy child? (Physical health might be the least of it.) What about Teresa? And how would that work with the rest of their lives? However brutal the truth, the best for a child requires unqualified love and acceptance and the ability to meet all practical, physical, emotional and psychological needs. Despite believing every child deserves a permanent, loving home, working with CPS wouldn't be his first choice.

Private adoptions presented different opportunities. And problems. Adopting a healthy infant could take years and tens of thousands of dollars, especially for the highly prized "healthy white infant." If only out of respect for Sam and Cho and Madeline and dozens of others he knew, he found the emphasis on race disgusting. Upon reflection, he could see there was, perhaps, some justification in that desire. Adoption was rarely a couple's first choice for starting a family. And most children old enough to understand would prefer being raised by their 'real' parents. Adopting a child who looked biologically related could help the family move beyond their losses to bond as a family. It certainly helped the child not to have his very personal history obvious for the world to question and judge. Still, anything beyond wishing for a healthy child struck him as frivolous and unprincipled. The lack of control would be hard to bear.

International adoptions presented different but no less daunting problems. Much of the world was materially worse off than the US. Poverty, war, and discrimination – children of mixed race or born to unwed mothers were social outcasts in some countries – created situations in which children needed a family and home. He dreaded the prospect of _two_ government bureaucracies to satisfy. Depending on the nation, their age, his lack of education, the murder of his first family, and his time in a mental institution could disqualify them from adopting. Years of waiting, required travel, long stays overseas, unpredictable international politics, and cultural differences mattered. Ugly rumors routinely circulated to explain why 'rich foreigners' wanted to adopt their children – even the lurid and repulsive notion of using adopted children for body parts for ill American children. The most egregious abuses had been eliminated by uniform adoption legislation enacted in many nations concerning international adoptions. There were still instances of thinly disguised baby selling by the unscrupulous, usually exploiting impoverished parents unable to support their children. Even legitimate orphanages charged high fees for adopting infants to fund the care of older children who wouldn't be adopted. Nothing about it sounded simple or straightforward. The lack of predictability and control sounded worse than for domestic adoption.

The fourth option was independent adoption arranged directly between a pregnant woman and the prospective adoptive parents, usually with an attorney facilitator. The birth mother could only be reimbursed for pregnancy-related expenses (buying a child was outlawed with slavery). However, the direct personal connection promised to be harrowing and cringe-worthy. They would be competing against others to convince a pregnant woman of their worthiness to parent her child. A birth mother could change her mind any time until the legally mandated waiting period expired a month after birth. Heaven help them if the birth father had not truly relinquished his parental rights and later contested the adoption.

His past ominously hung over everything. Yesterday he had googled 'Patrick Jane.' His bloody, sketchy past came up instantly. He could pass a criminal background check and had never been convicted of anything. But any sane person responsible for placing a child _ought to_ run screaming from his past. Who'd believe he would be a fit parent after he so horrifically failed Charlotte? His time in a mental institution was no longer secret. And even discounting McAllister, he had killed Hardy and Carter. Shooting Hardy was justified by saving Teresa and he'd been ruled not guilty for killing Carter. Still, what social worker would be okay with a man who had twice killed?

Teresa's chances of adopting would be better without him. As for conceiving, the biology wasn't working for at least one of them. He darkly concluded it would be best if he were at fault. Then Teresa could get pregnant with donor sperm and sidestep the adoption nightmare entirely.

A call provided a welcome interruption.

"Jane." He took a sip and made a face at the stone cold tea. The diner was deserted with lunch long over. Jane put his cell on speaker so he could finish his sandwich.

"Hi, it's Wylie. If you're not too busy I'd like to ask a favor."

"I owe you for that search." He motioned the waitress for fresh tea.

"I have an undercover assignment coming up. I, um, could use some pointers on how to pull it off. Lying I mean."

Jane grinned and said, "I assume that's a compliment," just to enjoy Wylie's fluster.

Smoothly, "Natch. You're the best."

Jane's smile widened at the cheeky come-back. _Coming into his own._ "I can drop by if you're available."

"That'd be great."

Thirty minutes later Jane was sitting opposite Wylie in the SacFBI break room.

"Fill me in."

"The team's gone through the active cases on the west coast, our area. We flag groups and individuals that seem poised to commit terrorist acts. The goal is preventing attacks whenever possible. If the locals agree, we'll mount a sting operation–"

"–The undercover assignment."

"Yeah." Wylie looked troubled. "There's a white supremacist multi-state network that looks like it's on the verge. Rabidly anti-black and now anti-Muslim. Cho wants me to strike up an acquaintance with the leader. Try to record him bragging about their plans, to get a warrant. The warrant would let us get the information to justify busting up the groups. If that doesn't work, set up a confrontation using Ojara and maybe Hassan. Plea bargain any charges for information." He looked up with a worried expression. "How do I fit in with a group like that?"

Jane sipped his tea. "How long do you expect this to take? A day? Week? Longer?"

"We're hoping it'll only take a couple of days. But what do I know about acting like a skinhead thug? I mean..." He stopped and sighed.

"Forget 'acting.' Be yourself with a twist."

"What do you mean?"

"Unless you've secretly won an Oscar, pretending won't work. The key is staying as close to the truth as possible. Use your experiences, changing a few details to work with your assignment."

They paused when Ojara and Hassan came in for coffee. Ojara looked curiously at Jane, nodded and left with his drink.

Wylie picked up where they left off. He spread his hands. "How?"

Jane gave Wylie a once over. "Ever been turned down by a girl – in high school, maybe? – for a guy who didn't deserve her?"

Wylie flushed. "Yeah, Carrin. Smart. Pretty. She went for a football player who was as dumb as a rock."

"Use that. Let's say you run into your marks in a bar. It's okay you're a computer nerd. After you start talking, find a pretext to tell them your story about the _black guy_ who got the girl. Maybe embellish it a little about how bad the guy was, maybe with a bunch of his friends. Tell them you got into computers because it's mostly white guys. Only now there are guys from India, China, Pakistan, the Middle East who steal jobs from Americans by working cheaper."

"Why would that work?"

"Anger from the actual event will come across as genuine. The jobs angle echoes current news. And you allow them to feel superior. A smart guy, good job and still you need them, their willingness to break heads to avenge injustices by black guys and foreigners. Think of other instances where you felt wronged and change the details to fit the narrative."

Wylie brightened and heaved a sigh of relief. "Gives me a starting point."

Jane finished his tea. "And check out relevant web sites. Try to absorb their world view, how they frame their ideas. That'll help, too."

"Thanks."

Cho spoke from behind Wylie, startling him. "Good advice."

"Boss." Wylie nodded to Jane and left.

Jane started to get up but stopped when Cho asked, "Got a minute?" Both men sat.

"What's up?"

"Appreciate your helping Wylie."

"But?"

"The data search you asked for. The FBI got caught playing politics in D.C. Accused of illegal electronic surveillance of citizens. The whole bureau is under pressure to follow the letter of the law, especially regarding investigating citizens."

"Which means?"

"I can only help with open criminal investigations. And have the PD call next time."

"Lisbon said as much. Okay." Jane finished his tea and pushed the cup away.

Cho eyed the bruises. "Lisbon get you out of a scrape?"

"Maybe I got her out of one." Jane got up, smiled. "See you around, Cho."

 **Jane-Lisbon Home, Sacramento**

Jane closed the door and dropped his packages on the foyer table. Lisbon appeared from the bedroom hall, twisting damp hair into a sloppy bun.

"Hey." She gave him a kiss. "What's all this?"

"Things I need for the party tomorrow. And Ben's gift," he added as she unearthed a beautifully wrapped box.

She hefted it and rotated it in her hands. "What is it? I should know what we're giving him." She had little doubt a store clerk had wrapped it for her husband. Free.

"Computer programming software and a video game that works with it. And, some super-high bouncing balls."

She raised her eyebrows. "Balls?"

"They're fun. He _is_ a boy."

They had take-out delivered for dinner. Lisbon looked up from setting the table as Jane paid for the food with cash. "You really think that's necessary?"

He answered when the door was closed. "Don't want any connection between our identities and the location of our home. You coppers can trace anyone through credit cards, property records, mailing addresses."

She sighed at the inconvenience. _Would that really have kept Red John from finding your home?_ _But if you're set on it..._ "We shouldn't have cell phones then," emphasizing the absurd lengths needed to truly stay incognito.

He set down her coffee and his tea as he joined her at the table. "Was thinking about that. I would like to get burners–"

 _Well_ that _backfired._ "–What's the point? Once a burner is associated with us it can locate us."

"I know. I'd like to replace them every week." He hurriedly countered the obvious objections. "I'd update our friends and arrange forwarding calls for business every week."

She sighed. Resigned, "If you do that I'm fine. You realize we're approaching tin-foil hat territory, right?"

"Are we? Cho was right when he suspected the FBI – _his employer_ – of monitoring him. Ardilles's cell phone got him killed."

Quietly, "Red John's dead. Blake's history."

"Unless we missed a few. And there are all the perps we put away for the CBI. Teresa, please."

She scratched an eyebrow. "Okay." She looked harder at him, past Jane's normal level of odd and the cell phone issue. _This is anxiety, a reaction to something. What?_

They settled in the living room to watch the news. The latest was a leaked presidential order reauthorizing 'black' interrogation sites, deemed illegal by some (even when located in foreign countries) and questionable by many. The new administration belligerently defended its decision to capture and question terrorist leaders. It argued that the previous administration's policy of killing them with drone strikes cost them vital intelligence. The airwaves were again filled with sound and fury about whether the US would be engaging in torture.

Lisbon was torn. Torture was revolting. But was it worse than killing someone outright? She was certain torture should _never_ be a regular tool of US armed forces or intelligence agencies. But should someone – the president? the president with others and if so, who? – be able to _legally_ authorize torture under extreme circumstances? What about a terrorist with information that could stop an imminent attack? She wondered if the people adamantly against torture would change their minds if _their_ families stood to die in an attack that could be thwarted. And what about water-boarding? Years ago Cho told her he'd been water-boarded as part of his military training to resist interrogation if captured. He made no bones about how awful it was. But with careful monitoring and medics standing by, it apparently did no permanent damage... _Hell, I ended up agreeing McAllister should be killed! All shades of gray._

The news was over. She was about to ask Jane his opinion only to realize he was wholly distracted. She clicked off the TV.

Quietly, "Hey." Again, "Patrick." He looked her way. "You seem sad. What's goin' on?" She touched his arm gently. He blinked and looked at her wistfully.

He shook his head slightly, "Nothing. Just – just we're still settling into our new life." The excuse was transparent.

"Anything I can do?"

His forehead creased but he only said, "No. Everything's fine."

Although she was certain there was more to it, her partner was as stubborn as she was. She would let him tell her in his own time ... so long as it didn't drag on too long.

 **Rigsby Home, Sacramento, Saturday**

Van Pelt welcomed Lisbon and Jane, looking gorgeous if harried in shorts, tee and sandals. She led the way to a back yard overflowing with energy and noise as eight young boys played tag. Lisbon snorted. _Tag and touch football and all around roughhousing._ Van Pelt grabbed up Taylor as the two-year old ran toward the boys.

"Uh-uh, Tiger. Too rough for you." Jane took her from Van Pelt when the toddler started fussing. "Thanks," Van Pelt said and hurried away to welcome another guest.

Jane sat on a lawn chair and distracted the little girl by making funny faces. Lisbon put Ben's gift on a table with the others then was drawn to the profusion of flowering plants and bushes along the fence. Rigsby lugged out a tub filled with sodas and ice. Taylor caught sight of him and squirmed to get free.

Rigsby plucked his daughter from Jane's lap. "Daddy's girl, huh?" Rigsby murmured and kissed the tip of her nose. She giggled and hugged his neck. He grinned. "Hey, glad you could come," throwing a welcoming look to both. "Madhouse every time Ben's friends come over–"

"Hey, Rigs," Lisbon called across the patio.

Jane returned the smile, "–A good one. Think you've got a success on your hands."

"Yeah, barring trips to the emergency room," he said eyeing the trampoline he'd rented.

Jane twisted around to look at it. "Should be okay with the netting."

"Counting on it." A slight, young Asian woman appeared and set down paper plates, napkins, plastic-ware, and a platter of quartered sandwiches. "Let me introduce you. Min-Ji, this is Patrick Jane and Teresa Lisbon," Rigsby said glancing to each in turn. "Jane, Boss, this is Min-Ji, Cho's–"

"–Cousin," Jane finished, connecting person with earlier information. "A pleasure."

"Hi." Min nodded to each, slightly frowning at Jane's three-piece suit and bruised face. She quickly left to go back inside. Jane spread his hands in silent query.

Rigsby shrugged. "Takes a while to warm up. 'Specially to men."

Chaos subsided as the boys descended upon the sandwiches. Van Pelt thought it wise to get real food into them before the sugary sodas, cake and ice cream. Having run off some energy and gotten fed, the boys were calm enough to enjoy Jane's magic show. He held their attention for a solid hour, and passed out cool trinkets at the end. Lisbon watched quietly with an unreadable expression. Rigsby and Van Pelt took the opportunity to rest during the lull. Min watched all a short distance away.

Sarah and Jacob Cartwright came just before it was time to sing 'happy birthday' and cut the cake. Her constant cheer dimmed at sight of Jane but that was all. Hugely pregnant, she and Jacob left soon after Ben finished opening his gifts, with the excuse that the heat was getting to her. Any hard feelings from the past between the Rigsby's and Cartwright's were secondary to their shared interest in Ben's welfare. Next week Ben would start a vacation with his mother and step father, their best opportunity for extended time with him before life would be complicated by a newborn.

Re-energized, the boys were ready to try the trampoline. Min rode herd. She made sure no more than two boys jumped at the same time and stopped anything dangerous. Eventually the boys tired out. Ben begged Min to jump. Grinning widely, she surprised them by doing flips and tricky maneuvers, for the first time acting like the 18-year old girl she was.

Lisbon was quiet on their drive home.

"How're you doing?" Jane asked after a bit.

"Good party. Ben is growing up fast."

"He is. –And?"

"Never thought I'd miss the pandemonium after raising my brothers."

"But you do."

She sighed. "Some." After a moment, "We need to have them and Cho over some time. ... We're really not set up for a toddler."

"Maybe we'll make it just adults."

She frowned. "Isn't that unreasonable? Taylor's a terrific little girl..."

 _And all the kids just made you feel worse. Plus Sarah's pregnancy._ "It'll be their idea."

"Jane!" Her objection was half-hearted.

Showers, dinner, and a movie finished the day. Jane amused himself by counting the instances when the actors' tells egregiously conflicted with events in the movie.

He needed the distraction from their problems with starting a family. _Aside_ from Teresa's sadness, _aside_ from his own disappointment and empathy for his wife, the situation threatened to confirm his father's relentless lesson: _'Either you play the losers, or you are a loser.'_ To his father, marks inevitably paid for a kind act, a good deed. It was the way the world worked.

Angela had been the best thing that happened to him ... and paid with her life. After standing by him for years, it increasingly seemed Teresa's reward for selfless devotion would be bitter loss.

He couldn't stand thinking his father was right all along.

 **Cho, Sacramento FBI, Sunday**

Cho spent an intense morning. He reviewed the white supremacist op plan and found nothing to tweak. He then turned to sifting through open case files on potential terrorists. There were hundreds for west coast states alone. Identifying the few most likely to act in the near future was finding a needle in a pile of needles. Washington, a grab bag of experts, and the regional task forces had developed a standardized approach. Cho considered that a starting point. A decade with Jane demonstrated over and over the value of a telling detail, a different take. The 9-11 attack might have been foiled had some agents' suspicions been heeded about the odd phenomenon of students taking private flying lessons who had no interest in landing planes. There would be no penalty for missing something so long as they followed the standard approach. Except there would be unnecessary deaths among the people they'd sworn to protect.

His concentration was interrupted by a call.

"Cho."

"This is Security. We have a Ms. Chay here to see you."

He sat back with a frown. "Send her up." He finished his now-tepid coffee and wondered why now. Nothing had changed unless Elise had changed her mind. He doubted that. Unwittingly lost in thought he straightened abruptly at a noise nearby.

"Hey, Ranger."

Cho's eyes widened. "Alyssa. The guard said 'Chay' and–"

"–You thought it was Elise." She shook her head dismissively. "She's no doubt slaving away over paperwork too."

"What are you doing here?"

Instead of answering she walked all the way around his desk, scrutinizing several empty cups from coffee, the piles of folders and the patiently waiting computer. She sat. "You're looking way too much at home at that desk," she said with a grin. "Came to rescue you."

"I have work–"

"These jobs there's always more work. Even your mom hasn't seen you in weeks. How about a break that gets you out of that chair, out of the building for a few hours?"

He relaxed and let himself appreciate her lithe figure clothed in closely fitted pants and a tee.

She flashed a smile, teeth brilliant against golden skin. The pixie cut framed her face to perfection. "Air force buddies are doing parachute drops this afternoon. Said I could come along. With a friend." Cho glanced at his computer screen. Sensing he was weakening she gave it a final push, "Security says you got here at six. Isn't it time for a break?"

"Yes." He rose and tossed his empty cup. "Hell yes! –You always were a brat." She grinned and led the way out.

 **Jane-Lisbon Home, Sacramento, Monday**

Lisbon pulled up to their home and gave a sigh of relief that the day was over. She'd made their pitch to another several PD's, but trucking around alone was boring. Her husband's bruises were fading so maybe they could go together the rest of the week. With no sign of the Citroen she took the opportunity for a shower. She emerged and checked. Even though it was after five, there was no note, no text, no message on the answering machine. She called and his cell instantly went to voice mail. She decided to stop by the post office to get their mail – another concession to excessive caution – and stopped by the business park on the way back.

The Citroen innocently sat gleaming in the setting sun in a reserved parking space. When she checked, their offices were empty and undisturbed. She frowned and decided to check the Citroen for a note. A glint of silver caught her eye before she inserted her key. Throat suddenly dry she bent down and dragged Jane's key ring from just under the car.

"Oh, crap." She tamped down her anxiety and looked through the Citroen. No clues, but at least there was no sign of a struggle. She drove home to be sure. When Jane wasn't there she started calling, first close friends and then less likely possibilities such as Hightower, Sam and Pete, Mancini and even Minelli, again without result. A half hour later she called Van Pelt back and asked if she had software at home that could locate Jane's cell. Van Pelt found nothing to track. Either the phone had been destroyed. Or its chip had been removed to prevent tracking.

She made one more call. "Cho, I need your help."


	8. Chapter 8 - Complications

**Chapter 8: Complications**

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Monday Evening**

Cho paused in the foyer as Lisbon quickly closed the door to keep moths and mosquitoes out.

"Nice place. Hard to find."

"It'd be invisible if Jane had his way." She swallowed dryly. "Thought he was being paranoid. Now I don't know." She led the way to the kitchen.

"We'll figure it out. –Rigs, Van Pelt?"

She shook her head. "Away case. Van Pelt has Taylor. –Something to drink?"

"Coffee."

They settled themselves in the family room at the back of the house. Cho leaned forward, hands on knees. Calmly, "Why do you think Jane's in trouble?"

"Can't contact him. I found his keys under the Citroen at our office."

"It's Jane. Maybe something caught his interest and he wandered off."

"There're only businesses within a mile."

Cho sipped his coffee, buying in to her concern. "Fill me in."

She took a breath, exhaled slowly and compartmentalized. "Last week we solved a kidnapping with the Santa Barbara PD. Perp's in custody. Otherwise, no threats, nothing suspicious."

"And today?"

"Got up at 7. Left by 9 to meet with PD's for our agency–"

"–Jane didn't come?"

"Still too banged up from that case. He was going to check our office and run errands. Got home at 5. There was one aborted call from him around 3. But no note or text or message on the machine. When I call it goes to voice mail. I checked our PO box and stopped by the office on the way back. Found the Citroen but no Jane. His keys were under the car on the driver's side."

"He could have dropped them without noticing–"

Flatly, "He notices everything."

Cho nodded. "So the keys are a message. Someone intercepted him–"

"–And took him. Not willingly or he'd have left a note." Anxiety flared and she tamped it down.

"What have you done so far?"

"Called everyone. No one's seen him. Van Pelt tried tracking his phone. Destroyed or the chip was removed." Cho frowned. "Hightower put out a BOLO. Thanks to Van Pelt the CIB has a database of agents associated with every case for the past fifteen years. No perps recently released on cases we worked." She sighed. "That's why I called. Ideas?"

 **Jane, Sacramento, Monday Morning**

Patrick Jane stopped by the office to deal with business mail. He was handling this work while Lisbon was marketing solo.

Law enforcement agencies were beginning to send the forms to register Lisbon & Jane, Private Investigators LLC as legitimate consultants. Pre-registering would save precious time when they were needed on a case. He snorted at the inevitable red tape, then smiled when he found several cold case files in the mail. Enterprising detectives quickly realized the credit to be had if he and Lisbon solved some old cases. Being cold, Jane knew the local detectives couldn't solve the crimes so he and Lisbon weren't being abused by the merely lazy. _Like Thornbush._ He'd enjoy the puzzles. Lisbon would enjoy closing the cases. She bristled at unsolved crimes like they were a personal affront. _Bless her cop soul._

Several hours later he finished with the fourth file. He was confident he'd solved two cases. He'd provide a good lead on the third. The last required Lisbon's input and more information. He neatly stacked the paperwork and brushed crumbs from a sandwich into the wastebasket. Glancing at the clock, _Just enough time._ _My time is their time,_ he grumbled under his breath _._ The medical field universally acted like patients had nothing better to do than go to doctor appointments. _Could've just told me by phone_. He closed up for the day, genially nodding to the receptionist as he left. Heather looked up from the novel that was keeping boredom at bay and smiled in return.

Jane fished his keys out as he walked to his car and looked back as a large black SUV pulled up behind, blocking him. Two serious, muscular men got out and approached. One was tall with closely cut blonde hair; the other, compact with olive skin and black hair cropped short. No one else was around and the SUV was between him and the building. He surreptitiously dropped his keys and nudged them under the Citroen as he slid his cell phone from his vest. _Better safe than sorry._

"'Afternoon, gentlemen. Something I can do for you?"

"We need you to accompany us, Mr. Jane."

"And if I don't?"

"Not optional."

One deftly took Jane's cell phone, turned it off, and pocketed it. The other grabbed both arms from behind while he was frisked by the first. Then each took an arm and hustled him into middle seat of the SUV, slamming the door shut. It took 30 seconds.

Jane tried the door. _Locked. Of course._ The rear passenger windows weren't tinted black, they _were_ black. That and the panel of darkened glass between the front and rear seats prevented him from seeing out.

"Buckle up." The voice was muffled by the glass and the car sides were suspiciously padded, squelching thought of yelling for help.

"How about filling me in?"

No answer. He was literally in the dark. The SUV soon reached highway speeds. Jane tracked the turns and tried to estimate distances but nothing stood out as a likely destination. Forty minutes later their speed eased and they pulled to a stop.

"Did I win the Reader's Digest mystery vacation?" He heard small planes landing and taking off nearby.

"Move away from the door. We have to blindfold you."

The left side door opened and Jane slid away hoping the other door would also unlock. It didn't. He sat still as they applied a blindfold. They escorted him across pavement, each man again holding an arm.

"Helicopter. Duck down."

In a moment he was hauled inside and buckled in. They lifted off. When he tried adjusting the blindfold both hands were firmly held down against the armrests with a brusque, "Not permitted."

"How long?"

"Not long."

"S'pose there aren't even peanuts." Jane exhaled in frustration. Even if he could get free there was nowhere to go while airborne.

They landed ninety minutes later after a flight that seemed to randomly loop back on itself several times. Jane was escorted off and away from the 'copter which promptly took off.

"You can remove the blindfold."

Jane blinked at too-bright light from a sun low in the sky. Desert. Desolate. Deserted. The men no longer held his arms.

"This way."

The three walked over sand-dusted rock toward a low hill. The concrete steps set into the ground were hidden by scrub brush until they were upon them. The first man opened a dun colored metal door set into a cement block wall half-buried in the ground. The roof was covered with dirt, sand, and scraggly vegetation. There were no windows. Jane followed with the second man bringing up the rear. The metal door clanged shut. The room held six bunk beds, metal chairs, a table, a mini-refrigerator and nothing else.

"Wait here." Both left. Jane tried the outside door. As expected, locked. As was the inside door through which the men had vanished. A third door opened to a Spartan multi-stall restroom with shower facilities. He relieved himself, not knowing when there'd be another chance. The refrigerator was empty except for a dozen bottles of water. He stretched, shrugged, and took a seat. He didn't wait long.

A lean nondescript man – 48? 50? – stepped in and took a chair opposite Jane at the table. Khaki pants and shirt, no insignia. The only unusual feature was a tan like sun-baked leather. His affect was utterly flat. Washed out blue eyes silently took Jane's measure. His hands rested on the table, still.

"I imagine you're confused."

Jane let the silence deepen before replying. "No. My captors are military. This site doesn't officially exist. So, an intelligence service – military, I'd guess. The interesting question is why. What do you want from me?" He smiled engagingly. The man's lips twitched, almost grinning in return before he caught himself. "We'll ignore how illegal this is for the moment."

"It's not."

Jane cocked his head at that morsel. "So Abbott's involved." The man's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "What do I call you?"

He said instead, "It would be helpful right now to know when ... guests ... are lying. You're supposedly good at detecting lies."

'Right now' suggested something had changed. Battlefield? Politics? And 'supposedly.' Disagreement between Abbott's side, whoever that was, and the military, whoever this was. _And I'm in the middle._

"I should cooperate – _why?_ "

"Your ticket back to Sacramento. We'll take as much time as you need."

"Then by all means, let's start."

The man with no name led the way through the inside door. The corridor had several doors on each side. They entered the first. A laptop sat on a table.

"Take a chair, Mr. Jane. We've arranged for you to view several interviews being conducted today. We need you to identify when the subject is lying." The compact, dark captor stepped in and took a seat. He put a clipboard and pen on the table and set out chilled bottles of water, one for Jane and one for himself. The man in charge said, "He'll note your conclusions." He pressed a key and the laptop flashed to life with video and audio of an interrogation in progress.

Jane's mouth dropped open and he twisted around before the man left. "You're kidding!"

He smiled with the warmth of a shark. "No," and left.

The interrogation was being conducted in Arabic or Farsi or some other language Jane didn't know. _Damn!_

The marathon ended when the man closed the link to the fifth interrogation. His minder left and Jane leaned back tiredly, aware he was likely being watched. He rolled his shoulders to relieve muscles knotted with tension. Without pain killers there was no way to still the pounding headache. _Now to deal with the bastard and get the hell out of here_ , he thought, striving to replace simmering anger with cold calculation.

The no-name man in charge appeared after a quarter hour and again sat opposite Jane. Jane waited silently.

Eventually, "More useful than I thought. I'm impressed the foreign languages didn't trip you up." His ice blue eyes held a predatory gleam. "You can provide a valuable service to your country. We need you to step up."

" _Your_ need. Hardly a compelling argument."

Pleasantly, "Don't screw with me, Mr. Jane. The US government owns you for the next five years. That _is_ compelling."

Reasonably, "You need _willing_ cooperation, not coerced compliance."

He smiled, "Don't see the difference."

Jane returned the smile. "Ask Abbott how well coercion works."

"I don't care." He leaned forward. "You correctly identified nearly every lie told in those interviews–"

"–Interrogations," Jane corrected.

He half-shrugged. "–Interrogations. So long as you deliver I don't care why."

"Playing me – _trying_ to play me – won't get what you want." Jane smiled, the picture of relaxed ease. "Your results mean nothing." He flicked his hand dismissing the day's events.

Curious, "How do you figure?"

"The video feeds weren't live, just taped from the past. Subtle, but clearly different seasons. Times that make no sense for sites a half world away. You even used the same interrogator twice. –Yes, I could tell from the back of his head." Jane snorted. "I didn't read people in a foreign language, just your man taking notes. His reactions told me everything." The man frowned and Jane knew he'd scored. "Have Abbott call if you want something. Till then I'm done. Return me to Sacramento."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He rose and left without a word.

Jane took a deep breath, got a bottle of water and lay down on a bunk. A half hour later his escort of two was back and the helicopter was waiting. The stars were brilliant in the black velvet sky, though the vibration and whup-whup of copter blades ruined the quiet beauty. The trip back was shorter. It was nearing midnight when the men left Jane by the Citroen. They dropped the cell phone components in his hand and left without a word. He sagged against the car in fatigue and relief. He spent a frustrating few minutes searching in the dark before realizing Lisbon must have found and taken his keys. He pulled the spare from his wallet and was finally on his way.

The Citroen's lights swept the yard and revealed a black SUV in the driveway. He wondered which SCU team members she'd recruited to help. He punched the code into the electronic lock and entered the nearly dark house.

"I'm–"

A hand gripped his arm, yanked, and shoved him against the wall in a hammerlock.

"–home," Jane rasped, breath forced from him when slammed against the wall.

Light flooded the room. Lisbon lowered her gun. Cho released his arm and stepped back.

"You okay?" his friend asked.

Jane tugged his vest straight and shook the pain from his right arm. "Prefer the 'welcome home' version. Geez."

Suddenly Lisbon was holding him in a tight embrace. A welter of emotions tumbled over her face – stark relief, fear, anger, curiosity, irritation – before settling on relief. She took a breath and set it aside. "Not hurt?" She looked anxiously at his face.

"Just tired." He rubbed his face.

Cho looked from Jane to Lisbon and back to Jane. "Was a crime committed? Anyone in danger?"

Jane said around a huge yawn, "No. Not a police matter."

Cho turned to Lisbon. "Boss, unless you need me I should shove off. I've got an op to manage tomorrow."

She squeezed his upper arm. "Go then. Thanks, Cho, I owe you."

His lips twitched as he almost smiled, happy it ended well. "Anytime." ' _Course if Jane doesn't give Lisbon a good explanation..._ He allowed himself that smile as he drove off. He'd get the story next time he saw them.

Jane shambled to the couch and sank down, head back, eyes closed. Lisbon resisted pressing for an explanation. _Care first, answers later._ "When did you last eat?" If she just asked whether he wanted food he'd decline.

Without opening his eyes, "Lunch. Sandwich."

"I'll fix you dinner," adding automatically, "and tea."

Ten minutes later she put a tray with tea and warmed left-overs on the coffee table in front of him. He sat up and ate, surprised at how hungry he was. Done, he patted his belly and leaned back with a sigh, marginally less tired. She joined him on the couch and nestled against him. A shiver ran down her body, the aftermath of stress leaving her tired and cold.

"All okay, dear. Thank you." He pulled her close and kissed her cheek. "Figure out my message?"

"The keys?" He nodded. "You were taken against your will. No note."

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

He sagged from fatigue but managed to recount the day. The unknown location and lack of names made identifying the responsible agency impossible.

Eyes blazing green fire, "He knew Abbott. I'll tear him a new one." Jane's hand stopped her.

Amused, "It's 4 a.m. there. Sure now is the best time?"

She growled, "Would serve him right," but tossed her cell on the side table. She took a few deep breaths and could think again. "You do owe Abbott six cases a year. How should we handle this?"

Slowly, "Not interested in hunting terrorists, even less so with government infighting. Strong-arming and trying to play me hardly won me over. I'll solve crimes for the FBI, but not this."

She looked hard at him. "What else?"

He leaned forward and rubbed his face with both hands. "I picked out the lies by reading my guard."

"Of course. They weren't even speaking English."

He sighed. "Body language and tells would usually be enough. But not with a different culture thrown in. Teresa, I snowed them but kept count for myself."

"And?"

"I was wrong." He swallowed. "A lot."

She bit her lip, astonished that he was too embarrassed to tell her. Cautiously, "You're used to being right damn near always. _You have no idea how well your reads compare to anything else they've got._ "

He shook his head sharply, then clutched it as the headache returned worse than before. "Doesn't matter. Want no part of it."

Gently, "Hey. It's 1 a.m. Let's get you some ibuprofen and a good night's sleep. This'll keep."

He trailed her to their bedroom. He took pain relievers, brushed his teeth, and changed into night clothes and was asleep when his head hit the pillow.

It took time for her fury to abate. Abbott would get an earful tomorrow. She finally let it go with a huge sigh, grateful to have him back safely.

 **Jane and Lisbon, Sacramento, Tuesday**

Lisbon placed the call.

"Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane. ... Tell him. He'll take it. ... We'll wait." She put her cell on speaker and set it on the table.

Abbott's rich, deep voice greeted them a moment later. "Lisbon. Jane. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Courteously, "'Morning, Dennis. Yesterday I was abducted and taken to a black site for five hours of terrorist interrogations." Sharply, "Some reason you couldn't call?"

There was a pause. "Oh, hell."

"The reason?"

"Not my doing, at least not directly. The military and Homeland agencies are under pressure to apprehend and question Islamic terrorists now that the US no longer just kills them. As you may imagine, D.C. is in an uproar about interrogation methods–"

"–You mean torture," Lisbon interjected bluntly.

Unperturbed, "That is the concern. And challenge. The Administration badly wants the intelligence without triggering legal questions about torture."

"Which is where you came in," Jane murmured.

"I mentioned your talents. Thought you could be useful."

"And?" Lisbon again.

"And my esteemed colleagues from another agency," sarcasm broad, "must have taken it upon themselves to check you out, Jane." He added sincerely, "I regret the heavy-handed tactics."

Coldly, "So do they. Didn't get what they wanted."

Mildly, "Why am I not surprised?"

Jane took a breath. "I owe you casework on regular crimes. Not interrogating radical Islamists."

"I'll ignore that our agreement doesn't specify the type of work. –But why?"

"You need my willing cooperation. Let's just leave it at that."

"For the moment. We have to may revisit this."

Lisbon spoke up. "I have a bone to pick, Abbott."

"Listening."

"The agreement is I work cases with Jane. I'm not gonna wonder why Jane didn't come home every time the Feds decide they need his services. And I sure as hell don't trust strangers with his safety." She ignored Jane rolling his eyes. "I expect the courtesy of a call and insist Jane and I work together. If that's a problem, let's hammer it out now."

Abbott took a deep breath. "That is the agreement. I'll make sure it goes down that way in the future. –Unless there's more I have a meeting."

Jane said genially, "Have a good day, Dennis."

Lisbon just bit out, "Bye." She ended the call.

"That should do the trick."

Fiercely, "It damn well better."

He covered her hand with his and stroked her wrist with his thumb. "Hey. I'm sorry you were worried."

The anger thrumming through her eased. "So am I, Patrick. This is why we got out of the FBI and it's still happening. And now Abbott has a bunch of intelligence agencies interested in you."

"I gave them nothing yesterday. Think they got the message."

She glanced at the clock. "We should get going. First appointment is at 9."

"After you, my dear."

The first two appointments went well. It was easier now that they had their pitch down pat and Lisbon was resigned to marketing. Jane knew he'd get bored without a steady stream of interesting cases, but didn't mind another week of riding around with his wife on beautiful, sunny days. No corpse at the end of each drive was a bonus. Half-way to their third and last appointment Lisbon got a call. Jane lifted the cell from her jacket pocket and answered.

"Lisbon's phone, Jane speaking. ... We have one more appointment. Won't get back till 4. Can Mrs. Mendez return later? ... If she wishes. Please tell her we're sorry for the wait. And offer her something to drink? ... Thanks, Heather." He ended the call.

"A Mrs. Mendez is waiting to speak with us when we get back. Wouldn't say what she wants."

"She just showed up?"

"Called yesterday to make sure we'd be in. Note's in your office."

Jane was fidgeting with curiosity by the time they pulled into the office parking lot two hours later. Only cars owned by Heather and other business tenants were outside their building. They nodded to the receptionist who glanced to her left. An older woman rose stiffly. She wore a shirtwaist dress wrinkled from the heat and limp from years of washing, no make-up, and sensible shoes that screamed decades of standing. Graying black hair was pulled into a bun over a face of lined olive skin, bright black eyes, and a worried expression. Jane pegged her age at 64.

He extended his hand. "Mrs. Mendez, I'm Patrick Jane."

Crisply, "–Teresa Lisbon." She also shook.

"I came from Santa Barbara to talk to you," she said in heavily accented English.

"Let's talk privately. This way."

They went to the shared conference room which, like most of the building, was little used. Jane politely held the door then let it close softly. He got glasses and three chilled bottles of water from an alcove and joined the women at the polished wooden table. Lisbon got a pen and lined tablet from her briefcase.

"How can we help you?"

Mendez pulled a newspaper clipping from her bright aqua bag. She laid it flat and pointed to a paragraph heavily circled in ink near the bottom. "This is you, no? The people who found Señor Englewood's daughter?"

"Yes. You know Mr. Englewood?"

"He comes to City Hall cafeteria where I work. I need you to find my grandson, Agapito. La policia won't help, say he's too old." She swallowed heavily, accent worse with anxiety, "I promise I can pay your fee if you give me time. I just need him back. Safe."

Last Friday eighteen-year-old Agapito Mendez rushed home from his job in a grocery store. He threw clothes into a duffel bag and left with his new twenty-something friends Benito and Juan, who were waiting outside in their beat-up car. He gave his grandmother a hasty kiss and said he was taking a trip for a few days. That was the last she heard. She went to the police when Agapito wasn't back for work on Monday.

Agapito left voluntarily.

He was legally an adult.

The police sent her away.

Lisbon and Jane exchanged glances. On the face of it there no crime and it was far from clear Agapito _wanted_ to be found. Maria Mendez's account was only one side of the story and incomplete. They silently agreed to press for more information.

Maria Mendez raised Agapito after his mother overdosed when he was three. His father had never been part of his life. His grades were good and he'd never been in trouble with the law. She described her grandson as quiet and serious and reliable. He was enrolled to start classes at a community college in the fall, to eventually become an agricultural scientist. Mrs. Mendez emphasized she'd kept him close to avoid the temptations of gangs and drugs. With a sigh she admitted he was a little naive, a little sheltered, as a result. Her eyes betrayed painful doubt about whether that had been wise after all. She fell silent as they reached a lull in their questioning.

Rising, Lisbon said, "Excuse us. We'll be back in a moment." She and Jane left for their offices.

She closed the door and turned to face him. "What do you think? He wouldn't be the first teen to spread his wings."

He looked down unseeingly as he thought. " _She_ believes it's unlike him." He uneasily tipped his head, "And two _men_ in their 20's suddenly befriending an 18-year old? What's in it for them?" He looked up. "What's your take?"

She blew out her breath between pursed lips. "The facts suggest a harmless road trip. But it," she flushed at letting instinct trump fact, "feels hinky. I want to take the case."

He smiled with relief.

"You realize we're not doing this one for the money?"

"And which of us cares, my dear?"

Lisbon waved that away and frowned. "We're gonna need more than two first names to get anywhere."

Eagerly, "Let's see if she can provide any details. I predict a drive to Santa Barbara in our near future."

They returned to the conference room. Mendez rose as they entered, wringing her hands nervously.

Lisbon addressed her, "We want to help you, Mrs. Mendez, but first you have to give us–"

"–I can pay something now if–"

Lisbon blinked at the non-sequitur, "–Um, no, that's not what I meant–"

Jane inserted smoothly, "We need more _information_ to track where they went. Please have a seat again."

"Oh." The woman searched her bag and laid a scrap of paper on the table. "The car has four doors. It's black. Old. It has this on the back." She drew a rough sketch they recognized as the Chevy symbol. She turned over the paper. "These numbers and letters were on the license plate." She frowned, "I didn't get it all."

Lisbon, "This is very helpful. –Does Agapito have a cell phone?"

"At home. We got it for college. It does not work right now."

She frowned, trying to understand. "It was _prepaid_ but he needs to buy more minutes?"

Mendez brightened, "Yes. Like the store man said."

Lisbon exchanged looks with Jane. _So much for tracking him that way._ "Is there anything else you can think of?"

As Mendez thought, Jane tapped his lips and asked, "Did Agapito have money? How would he buy food or whatever?"

She looked up. "Not much. Maybe his credit card." She dug into her bag again and laid a credit card on the table.

Lisbon's face fell. "This has your name, ma'am. Do you happen to know the number for your grandson's card?"

" _Si, si._ It is the same. I had to put my name on too."

Jane's face split into a wide grin. "You are a gem. Any charges will show where he went."

Her forehead wrinkled. "The bill comes next week."

Lisbon asked carefully, "Am I correct that the card is in your name as well as your grandson's?"

"Yes."

"We can get that information right now. –Um, do you have computer access set up?"

She shook her head, worried again. "I don't know about computers. Agapito knows."

"That's fine. –May I?" Lisbon asked for the card and Mendez slid it over. "We'll call the card company and get a printout now." She called the number printed on the back and put it on speaker. After Mendez answered several security questions, Lisbon was able to print out a list of recent transactions. She and Jane skimmed it before she put it in her briefcase. Friday's charges were near Santa Barbara; Saturday and Sunday, Los Angeles; Monday, Barstow; the most recent, Las Vegas and western Nevada.

Lisbon ploughed ahead with the formalities. She confirmed that Mendez wanted to hire them to find her grandson. She left to get a standard client contract from her office, throwing Jane an annoyed glance for his obvious impatience. He knew as well as she that the contract gave them certain legal rights to investigate and insurance coverage for property damage or personal injuries during the investigation. Meanwhile Jane told Mrs. Mendez that she would only owe money if they found Agapito.

She muttered "God bless you," in Spanish, then asked, "How much for finding him?"

Jane shrugged. "Not much."

"Tell me. I have savings."

Lisbon walked back in when Jane answered, "Three hundred dollars." Lisbon shook her head. _Lucky if that covers gas and food._

All signed the contract and Lisbon got a check for $50 from Mendez to make it legally binding. She closed her eyes to keep from rolling them when Mendez asked for a receipt. Jane smirked at his partner. The carnival had been filled with people too poor to be casual about money, too strapped to be double charged for lack of a receipt. Lisbon grumpily unearthed a pad of forms and gave Mendez a receipt.

They would leave directly for Santa Barbara since they kept packed away bags in the SUV. Mendez gratefully accepted the offer to ride with them when Jane said they'd need to see Agapito's room. Jane figured she'd gotten to Sacramento by bus.

Lisbon lightly whapped Jane's chest on the way out, whispering, "You are _such_ a soft touch." He pretended not to hear.

 **Santa Barbara, Tuesday Night**

It was midnight when they arrived at a small cottage in a bad neighborhood on the outskirts of Santa Barbara. Dinner en route had been at a McDonald's drive-through.

Mendez's fenced yard was a well-kept oasis in the shabby neighborhood. Loud music and conversations in Spanish spilled into the humid night air. Dogs barked – the poor man's security system. Mendez unlocked the double deadbolt and waved them in. The interior was well-worn but tidy and clean. A crucifix, pictures of Jesus and various saints, and a brightly colored Mexican blanket were the only decorations. Agapito's room was messier, typical of most teenaged boys. The meager possessions were consistent with his grandmother's description. High school textbooks, including higher level science and math, a few novels and biographies – Jane noticed a paperback copy of The Man Who Fed The World, – an inexpensive CD player, posters of Selena Gomez and the Brazilian soccer team, and a course catalog for the Santa Barbara community college. When they asked if he had a computer she showed him the one provided by the school. There was nothing on it but schoolwork, as required by school rules. The chest and desk drawers revealed nothing more shocking than clothes and school supplies.

"Mrs. Mendez, is there anyone else Agapito would call for help? Any place he might go?"

"No one that close. Our only place is here. My family is in Mexico."

"You said he had a cell phone?" Mendez rummaged in a drawer and handed it to her. Lisbon's interest quickened. The burner phone was a smart phone. "May we take this? We'll return it."

She nodded. "How will I know what you find?"

"We'll call each night. Is 7 p.m. a good time?"

She nodded. "Here." She wrote down her phone number and handed it to Lisbon.

"You have our numbers," from their business cards. "Call if you think of anything else. Especially if he calls you."

"How will you find him?"

"We'll catch up with them by following the credit card transactions. We need to get going. Good night." She nudged Jane who was lost in thought standing in the living room. Jane blinked, shook the woman's hand, and followed Lisbon out.

"You drive," Lisbon said, tossing the keys to Jane who caught them despite the dim streetlight.

He set the GPS to the last town in the list of credit card transactions. They resumed talking once they were safely underway. He glanced at Lisbon who was fiddling with Agapito's cell.

"Want to see what's on it," she said absently. She turned it on and tsked when it immediately turned itself off – dead battery. She opened the glove compartment and fished out a cable. "Yes!" The connector fit the burner so the car battery could charge it.

"Phone numbers?" he asked dubiously.

"You're missing it," she muttered. She fumbled around trying to find the car outlet. "What do you do when you get a new cell?" She plugged the other end in. Finally focusing on the conversation she scoffed, "You're the last who'd know. –You mess with a new phone, try out the features. Agapito just might have snapped pictures–"

"–Of his new friends," Jane finished.

She paged through the photos – a thumb, an unfocused wall, several bad selfies, and finally a string of better photos. She recognized Agapito from photos his grandmother had shown them. "Here." She showed Jane a close-up of Agapito with two young men who mugged for the camera who might be Hispanic. "Could be them."

"Nice, Lisbon."

Noticing they were on the interstate, "So what's the plan?"

"Follow them. Check out their last few stops, show around that photo. Catch up and talk with Agapito." He glanced her way. "We can get the car registration from the partial plate. Maybe use the photo and facial recognition software to confirm the name."

Lisbon huffed and grimaced. "Who do we ask for favors this time?"

Sunnily, "Whoever's willing."

"Better call while we have reception." She chose a number from speed dial.

"Hey, Boss. What's up?"

"Hi, Rigs. Hoped Grace could do a couple of computer favors."

"She's at dinner with a college friend. What do you need?"

Worry seeping through, "Run a car plate and try facial recognition on some photos. Any idea when she'll get in?"

"I'll do it." She could hear the grin in his voice at her surprised silence. "Can't live with a computer guru without picking up the basics. Hang on. –Okay, tell me the plate number and send the photos to Grace's e-mail account. I'll link to CIB computers and see if there're any hits."

A minute later Rigsby had started a computer search of California DMV registration records. The photos took longer because Lisbon had to pay for additional minutes on Agapito's burner cell before she could send the photos. The registration gave them the name Benito Morales. The facial recognition search turned up several matches of varying likelihood, but no one named Morales. A Benito Contreras, Benito Raimirez, Juan Manuel Gutierrez, and Juan Serrano were the best matches with the photos. She accepted his offer of checking for drivers' licenses and criminal records. No drivers' licenses came up but Contreras and Serrano had rap sheets showing histories of non-violent crime. Interestingly, no crimes were listed before 2013 for either. Contreras and Serrano were their best bets. Jane thanked him as well before Lisbon disconnected.

They settled into the long drive ahead. The case was painfully straightforward, hardly work either much enjoyed. They were in a headlong race to catch up and make sure Agapito was with his companions voluntarily. If so, they could reassure his grandmother and encourage the young man to go back. It would be problematic if there was coercion. They didn't have the authority to arrest anyone. Lisbon uncomfortably reminded herself they'd have to convince local law-enforcement if they needed back-up. She drifted off.

"Lisbon."

"Teresa."

She stirred, somewhat refreshed by dozing for the six hours Jane had been driving. "Need me to drive?" she mumbled sleepily.

"Wouldn't mind a break."

Glaring halogen lights around a 24/7 fast food chain competed with pale dawn light. Jane nudged her arm. "Pit stop. And coffee."

She yawned and stretched out kinks from sleeping in the SUV. "Okay, okay." Looking around, "Geez, Jane. You didn't have to drive all night." They'd reached the outskirts of Vegas. She rose and followed him into the restaurant. They ate inside because Jane disdained eating in vehicles as 'uncivilized.' _Or maybe_ , she mused, _the food mess whenever we rode with Rigsby did it_. They ate silently till the keen edge of hunger was blunted. Despite dark circles under his eyes Jane looked more alert after eating.

Jane sipped the bad tea and grimaced. "Was thinking about those credit card charges."

She chewed and swallowed. "What about them? I was focusing on the locations."

"There was a progression if I recall correctly. Friday's charges were for gas and fast food. Over the weekend some bar-and-grill restaurants showed up along with video game emporiums. Thought I noticed a bar, tattoo parlor, and casino on Monday. Today, uh, _yesterday,_ a casino and massage parlor. Several hundred total in charges. They're playing him."

"You're sure?" she asked dryly, eyebrows raised. "Not a crime if its voluntary. Yeah, the amusements are getting more ... adult. He can't drink if he's underage."

"Be real. Buy packaged liquor and share or even order drinks and switch with the boy. Exciting for a sheltered teen to have adult men pay attention, introduce him to a few illicit pleasures."

"Drugs?"

"Maybe. Cash advances as well as purchases."

"Again, so what? If it's voluntary, end of story."

He half shrugged uneasily, "I have a hunch..."

"What?"

"Will your computer work here? I need to see the most recent transactions."

"I'll pull 'em up on my cell." Lisbon and Jane huddled around the tiny screen. There were a dozen cash withdrawals at different ATM's, each for $200. The total charges approached the three-thousand dollar card limit.

"Dammit. They got his password and are stealing all they can. Limit is $200 per transaction. Must be a prepaid credit card to allow that."

Jane swallowed. "And when the card's maxed out?"

Her eyes opened wide, catching on. "No violent crimes on their sheets."

Grimly, "Let's hope they don't change their MO. Let's go."

Lisbon drove. They blew past Vegas toward the town where the string of ATM withdrawals began.

Lights flashed. A siren screamed. Lisbon ground her teeth and pulled over. She glared at Jane and hissed, "Not a word."

Ten nerve-wracking minutes later the cop had verified their registration, drivers' and PI licenses, and checked for warrants. Knuckles white from gripping the wheel Lisbon said urgently, "I used to be a cop. Two dangerous men are defrauding a teen. They may hurt him or worse when they can't get more money."

"How do you know?"

"Rap sheets."

His gaze sharpened. "Violent crimes?"

"No. They're facing grand theft plus. Might be tempted. _Please._ "

"I'll issue a BOLO. Forget the speeding ticket for now. Let's find these men."

Lisbon gave him the license plate number. They followed his cruiser, racing to the first ATM at high speed, lights flashing.

They arrived at the branch bank well before business hours. A car was parked outside. The deputy rapped sharply on the glass entrance doors. No answer. A minute later he stepped behind the bushes to the left and knocked on an office window. A bright glow showed behind the closed mini-blinds. A few slats parted. A woman blinked in surprise and hurried away.

"Officer, is there a problem?" asked a mid-30's woman. She unlocked the doors and let them in. "I'm Loretta Langdon, branch manager."

"Deputy Medana, county sheriff's office. This is Ms. Lisbon and Mr. Jane, private investigators. I'm here about a possible crime in progress. I'd appreciate your help in viewing your ATM video record. It's urgent."

She hesitated then decided. "I will need a warrant for any information beyond the ATM transaction. But I'll show you the video." She suspiciously eyed the two civilians, but led them to a small room housing a computer and copier. She sat down, logged on and looked back at them. "When?"

Jane leaned over and answered rapid fire, "Sometime after midnight this morning." He winced and exclaimed, "Ow!" as Lisbon deliberately stepped on his foot.

Lisbon glared and added calmly, "We need to know who made a $200 cash withdrawal for the account of Maria and Agapito Mendez." She jotted down the Mendez credit card number for Langdon.

Langdon's shoulders relaxed at Lisbon's quiet request. She scrolled down a sparse list of transactions from midnight on. "Here it is. –Same number, 5:28 a.m." She switched to the video recorded for the transaction. "Here's who made the withdrawal."

Lisbon and Jane frowned. A man in a hoodie made the withdrawal at the drive-up ATM. His face was hidden. The driver's side door was black.

The deputy spoke again. "Thank you, ma'am. We need to check several other ATM's. Do all your branches have the same business hours?"

Langdon frowned. She nervously licked her lips. "I can pull up information for the other branches if you want."

"Thank you. A boy may be in danger," Lisbon responded intensely.

Jane added, "Can you print out a list of the withdrawals for that card today with the time and the branch? Then look at the video for each?" he asked with his most charming smile.

She stared at Jane's face a moment, then shook her head slightly and snapped back to the moment. "Um, yes, yes I can."

When she finished her search Jane added in honeyed tones, "Two copies, please."

They spent five minutes looking at 30-second snippets of video for each transaction.

At the third ATM, Jane exclaimed, "Look–"

"– _White_ car now," Lisbon finished. The deputy looked from one to the other.

The car was white in the remaining withdrawals. The man's face was hidden every time. Done, Langdon herded them to the main doors, glad they finished before any customers came in.

"Thank you for your help, Ms. Langdon," the deputy said courteously. He stepped over to the cruiser at the sound of static from the radio.

Lisbon said, "They ditched their car. Maybe jacked the white one."

"Probably." Jane's face was buried in the list of ATM withdrawals.

"Got something?"

"Can you plot the locations of these ATM's?"

"Yeah." Fingers flew over her cell keypad. "Here," she showed him the ATM locations superimposed on a city map.

Jane took a deep breath. "That's it. Gotta be."

"What–" She was interrupted by the deputy.

"–The BOLO turned up a black Chevy sedan with that plate. In a warehouse area. Looks abandoned."

Lisbon turned back to Jane. "What did you figure out?"

"The ATM's are within a few miles of each other. Withdrawals are all about ten minutes apart. Except, look at this–"

"An _hour!_ "

"An hour to ditch Agapito and jack the white car."

Medana peered over Lisbon's shoulder at the display. "That _was_ the last ATM with a black car. It's close to where they found the sedan."

Jane rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. "That's it. Agapito is within 30 minutes of that ATM – 30 there and 30 back, max."

Lisbon, "What about Contreras and Serrano?"

"I'll put out an APB for them – if you can get me their pictures." Lisbon transferred the pictures. Jane danced with impatience.

"Let's _go!_ "

"Jane!" She turned to Medana. "You know this area. What's a likely place they'd ditch someone? Within 30 minutes of that ATM?"

"Alive?"

Jane's hands balled into fists. Through clenched teeth, "Yes, _alive._ If they killed him, doesn't matter does it?"

"The desert. Only a couple dirt roads out that way, hardly any traffic. Unless he can walk out he'll be dead in a day or two."

Lisbon said tersely, "Here's the plan. We drive out, two cars. Split up to take the two most likely roads. Keep a lookout while we drive 30 minutes at whatever speed we can. If we haven't found him, turn around and work our way back. He'd have to be somewhere in between."

"Okay, ma'am. I'm calling in a couple more black and whites. If I could get a bloodhound, you have anything with the boy's scent?"

"Oh – no."

Jane interrupted, "Anything in the sedan?"

He radioed. "No. But a Dodgers baseball cap was found in a trash can nearby."

"Likely his. His phone had photos of him wearing one." Just before they parted Jane asked Medana if he had a bullhorn.

"Good idea. I'll get the men to bring more. Here."

They finally, finally got underway. The road from town was rutted loose gravel and sand. It didn't hold sharp impressions, but it also made high speed impossible. They couldn't have traveled far in 30 minutes. Lisbon and Jane took the right-most road, leaving it to Medana to coordinate the search with the other deputies.

Going was tough, plowing through sand up to a foot deep. She thanked God to have chosen four-wheel drive for the SUV. She drove – maximum speed was 20 mph if that. Jane hung out the window calling the boy's name with the bullhorn.

Fifteen minutes into it he turned to Lisbon. "Stop. They'd be terrified of getting stuck in the sand with Agapito proving their guilt. Go back."

She frowned. "You're absolutely sure?"

He bit his lip. "Best bet. Let's try another road." He tried calling Medana as Lisbon laboriously turned around to head back. No service.

They slowly plowed back, the SUV bucking over rock and through sand, repeatedly losing traction. Lisbon fought to keep control, stay on the miserable excuse for a road.

He grabbed her arm. "Stop!" A dry wash carved a groove around a rocky outcrop, parallel to the road. It was and invisible from the other direction. Something flashed silver in the sun.

Lisbon was careful to stop on a rocky patch lest they get stuck. Jane was instantly out and scrabbling down the steep gully. "Dammit." She called loudly, "Watch for snakes."

"Lisbon!" He held up a side view mirror from where it was lying next to the rocky wall. Black with silver trim. She slipped the last few feet down to his level.

Amazed, "They'd take a sedan out here?"

"Might. Keep evidence out of the new car. Damn hard to carry someone over this ground–"

"–And," she panted, "in this heat." She cupped her hands and yelled, "Agapito! Mendez!"

Jane scrabbled back up to the SUV for the bullhorn.

Before he could get it Lisbon yelled. "Jane! Down here."

He grabbed Lisbon's half-drunk bottle of water and walked-slid down the wash again. Around the bend and fifty feet farther Lisbon squatted next to a still figure on the ground. Agapito Mendez was bound and gagged. Even if he'd heard them he couldn't have called out.

White and rigid with tension, "Is he–"

"Alive. Wouldn't be much longer. Wait!" Lisbon shooed Jane back. She forced herself to take several seconds to snap photos with her cell, photos that would be gold in a courtroom. Lisbon sawed through the zip ties with her pocket knife. They turned him over and pulled the gag from his mouth. Jane dampened his handkerchief and moistened Mendez's lips, patted his face. The teen groaned, eyelids fluttering.

"How do we get him out of here?"

Jane grimaced and sighed. "Carry him? Drag him on a blanket?"

Lisbon pulled her cell out, tried calling, then shook her head. Still no service. She squared her shoulders. "Let's try carrying. Here, this way." She described the steps to a fireman's carry.

They rolled the teen onto his belly and the two gripped him under his arms to pull him up until he was face to face with Jane. Lisbon helped keep him standing while Jane bent down, grabbed his right arm and eased Agapito onto his shoulders. Jane slowly straightened, then staggered forward through the sand. Lisbon did what she could to support some of the teen's weight, which wasn't much. Jane made it 50 feet. The SUV was only 20 more feet ... up the steep slope. Jane eased him down, panting. Sweat evaporated instantly in the 100-degree heat.

Lisbon had scrabbled up the sandy slope. "Hey!"

Jane looked up. "What?"

"We've got a blanket and rope. We'll pull him up."

Jane frowned in dismay, "Up a slope in deep sand? Doubt it."

"Not you, superman, the SUV."

Jane almost teared up in relief. Fifteen minutes later they managed to lift the teen onto the middle seat. They laved his face and chest with most of the remaining water. The first aid kit yielded a tympanic thermometer which revealed a body temperature over a hundred degrees – bad, but not life-threatening. Fifteen more minutes of heaving, sliding travel returned them to the paved road and cell phone reception. Medana called off the search and led the way to the nearest hospital.

Agapito was overheated, seriously sunburned, and still under the influence of alcohol and drugs. And he would be fine. He was released from the emergency center three hours later after receiving saline solution and tests to ensure there was no organ damage from dehydration. After Agapito gave his statement to Medana, Lisbon checked them into two motel rooms with a connecting door. Agapito went to sleep immediately without an argument. After being up a day and a half, Jane made it to their room and collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, sound asleep. Lisbon tried calling Mrs. Mendez without success, then lay down next to Jane with the connecting door ajar. The prayers of Maria Mendez were answered when Lisbon called that evening.

They drove back the next day. The teen was equal parts embarrassed and grateful to be alive. He would testify against against Contreras and Serrano if and when they were apprehended. The abandoned sedan had been wiped clean of prints, but Agapito confirmed their identities from their mug shots. He also confirmed that the two were illegals. Lisbon made a point of informing ICE that Contreras and Serrano were now sought for grand theft and attempted murder. They wouldn't threaten anyone else in the US if she could help it.

Jane privately got Agapito to admit the three had visited prostitutes during their extended joy ride. He urged the hugely embarrassed teen to use the free county clinic to get checked for STD's when he was back home. In return for Jane not telling his grandmother, Agapito promised he would pay all the credit card charges.

The three arrived at the Mendez home mid-afternoon Wednesday. Lisbon led the way up the walk. Agapito shuffled along afterward, looking down in shame. Jane hung back. The screen door whooshed open and the grandmother enfolded her grandson with both arms. After a moment she rubbed tears from her cheeks and examined him at arm's length. Finally she cuffed him lightly on the head with a jumbled mix of admonishments and endearments in Spanish. He gladly ducked inside as her attention turned to Lisbon and Jane. Mendez pulled a wrinkled check from her pocket and pressed it into Lisbon's hand. Instead of taking Lisbon's proffered hand, Mendez drew her into a crushing embrace complete with repeated heartfelt thanks. Jane looked on with a smirk, but stayed well out of reach of the public display of gratitude. Lisbon finally extracted herself and returned Agapito's burner cell to his grandmother. There was an awkward pause while Mendez dashed inside and returned with the contract and a pen, asking that Lisbon write 'paid in full' and sign it. Lisbon shook her head but wrote against her palm and handed it back. Mendez called something to Jane in Spanish. Then she waited till they pulled away with a parting, "Vaya con Dios." Lisbon later asked what she'd said. He grinned and said she'd called him a coward for not accepting her thanks and love, which Lisbon thought was about right.

It was during the six hour drive back to Sacramento that Lisbon finally found the right moment to ask why he took the case, and why nearly free. He revealed Agapito's promise to pay the three-thousand dollars in credit card charges. The thought of charging the grandmother their normal fee struck him about the way charging Sam Barsocky would have. People like Maria Mendez and Sam Barsocky ( _and_ , he silently added, _Teresa Lisbon_ ) were the fundamental forces holding their little pieces of the world together. As for the rest he said only, "She already lost one child."


	9. Chapter 9 - Private Investigating

**Chapter 9: Private Investigating**

 **Jane and Lisbon, Sacramento, Thursday Morning**

Lisbon and Jane intended a leisurely morning after three grueling days. Jane rose later than usual to swim and Lisbon was already up when he finished. He hastened to make tea and coffee in time to join her in the shower. The warm, non-chlorinated water felt wonderful after the chill of the early morning pool. Silky-slippery body wash coupled with their happiness at saving the boy led to very satisfying intercourse once he kissed away a half-hearted objection about office hours.

They soaped again to wash off the scent of sex. The spray beat a gentle tattoo against Lisbon's chest as she contentedly leaned back against Jane. He enfolded her, lazily fondling her breasts while sprinkling sated kisses on her neck. His murmur was inaudible under the noise of the shower.

"Mmm?"

"This beats bureau plaudits hands down." His lips tickled her skin as he spoke.

She barked a laugh and turned in his arms. "You sayin' I'm more appealing than Abbott's closed case memos? What a sweet-talker!"

He rubbed sensuously against her. "There'd be a closed-case avalanche if this were the reward."

"I'll tell Hightower to get on it. –I'd pay to read the employee manual." Chuckling, she planted a playful kiss and wiggled free. "An encore will wait." She quickly rinsed the last of the soap and ducked out of the shower. He sighed as her enticing form disappeared. A disciplined review of geologic time periods reined in his ardor. They'd almost finished dressing when Lisbon's cell phone rang.

"Lisbon. ... We're available. ... We'll be there in half-an-hour. Can you e-mail the file so we can review it en route? ... Great. Thanks, Madeline."

Lisbon drove while Jane read the file on her laptop.

"What's the case?" she asked when he folded the screen down.

"Thirty-something Brianna Fuller went missing Tuesday afternoon from a mall outside San Francisco. No signs of struggle, no threats, no domestic discord."

"That sounds like a PD case. Why is the CIB involved?"

He sighed. "Her husband is Damon Fuller."

She frowned, "The 'Fuller' running for election now that AG Gordon is retiring?"

"The very one. SFPD ran down every lead and came up empty. Yesterday they asked the CIB to take the case – and the political heat I bet. I doubt Madeline had a choice."

Lisbon paused as she expertly negotiated city traffic. "Wait, what am I missing? Fuller's an adult and there's no sign of abduction. Why assume it's a crime?"

Jane looked at her, eyebrows raised. "Why do you think?"

Disgusted, "The politicos want their problem solved fast, crime or not. We're out of government and still dancing for them."

"Which surprises neither of us." He shrugged. "It'll pay the bills."

"Who has the case in the CIB?" she asked, hoping for Rigsby or Van Pelt.

"Danielson."

"Danielson," she repeated slowly as dusty memories surfaced, "who was fresh out of the academy before Abbott's take-down? He heads a team now?" she asked in disbelief, feeling both old and annoyed that a green agent would hold the position.

Neutrally, "Must be. Blake corruption wiped out a swath of California law enforcement." Unfortunate. Real. Unavoidable. What more was there to say?

They pulled into the civilian section of the CIB parking deck and entered the building. A guard checked their ID's against a list of expected visitors. Lisbon and Jane passed through metal and explosives detectors and were sent to Director Hightower's floor. They were silent on the ride up. A sharp pang almost made her gasp. The last time they'd been in the CIB she'd been newly wed and new to marketing their PI agency. Now she – they – were here for a case. Like a thousand times before at the old CBI.

Regret, anger, familiarity, comfort, longing and frustration silently churned. She gratefully faced the elevator doors lest Jane pick up on her disquiet. _Not_ my _California bureau any more but damned if I don't miss it. Real law enforcement. A whole organization dedicated to crime-solving like the CBI ... until dirty Blake conspirators destroyed it._ Her sigh earned a questioning glance from her husband/partner/consultant/friend/everything. She schooled her features and gave herself a mental shake to dispel the melancholy. She needed to focus on the case before she unsettled Jane. Ever since their marriage his exquisite awareness of humanity was even more acute toward her.

"Lisbon, Jane."

"–Madeline."

"–Director Hightower."

Hightower rose and shook their hands across her desk. She reseated herself. Nodding to the late-20's man now standing by his chair, "This is Senior Agent Danielson. His team has the Fuller case." They shook his hand and all three seated themselves. "Danielson will brief you on the details and you'll work under his direction." She turned to the SA. "I trust you appreciate the experience and talents of Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane. Take their suggestions seriously." Facing all three, "Brianna Fuller is the wife of Damon Fuller, who has a good chance of being California's next AG–"

 _Your next boss,_ thought Lisbon.

"–Candidly, you're here because of politics. If she's been abducted, that is an attack against California's political establishment if not government. Before backing his run, the movers and shakers want to be sure no scandal or crime will derail the campaign."

Lisbon threw Jane a warning look before he voiced a caustic observation about everyone's tender concern for the woman. He said instead, "You mention 'scandal.' Is there reason to suspect one?"

Hightower said smoothly, "No. Your services are needed to determine what happened. I very much hope for the speedy location and return of Mrs. Fuller." She smiled and added more warmly, "Good to have you working this case. Now get to it." She waved them out.

They rode down to Danielson's floor in silence.

"This way." He led them to a conference room sandwiched between two open bullpens.

Danielson began, "Director Hightower asked Ms. Lisbon and Mr. Jane, formerly with the CBI, to help with the Fuller case–"

"–Please, just Lisbon and Jane."

"Meet agents Spangler and Zhang. Agent Woodman is with Mr. Fuller in case there's a call with a ransom demand." Nods all around. Danielson fiddled with his cell phone. "Woodman? You're on speaker with consultants Lisbon and Jane. Find someplace you can talk privately." To the consultants, "You've read the file so I'll focus on where we are in the investigation."

Idling during the preliminaries, Jane read eagerness, pride, defensiveness, hopefulness, and a pinch of resentment. _Not surprising for a young SA saddled with celebrity 'help.' Hope he won't get in the way._ He tuned back in.

"...her image wasn't captured on CCTV in a six-block radius. And–"

Bored, Jane interjected, "–What have you concluded about motive?"

Danielson blinked. "Um–"

At Lisbon's glance he continued in a more conciliatory tone, "Either she was taken unwillingly or left of her own accord. What have you concluded so far?" Absent Lisbon he would have skipped the Socratic method to pursue the direction he knew was the most promising. But Lisbon was very much present. Working "cooperatively" was very much her desire. He controlled himself. Reluctantly.

Danielson regrouped. "If she was abducted, it probably wasn't a robbery. Her purse and smart phone were in the car."

"Robbery falls to the bottom of the list. Kidnapping?"

"That's a live possibility but after two days, still no ransom demand."

Woodman spoke tinnily from the cell. "No developments here, boss."

Jane prompted with forced patience, "Which suggests she left willingly, either alone or with someone."

Zhang objected, "Unless some wacko abducted a random person. It happens."

Jane smiled in appreciation. _Wrong, but points for initiative_. "Yes, except there's no sign of struggle. The car was conveniently parked away from any CCTV cameras–"

Zhang frowned, "–Which proves nothing. She may just have parked there and been a good target for abduction. A lotta women park far from the stores for the exercise."

"Fair enough, though the heat wave makes the exercise theory less likely. But then what? Any reports of random abductions in the city?"

Danielson, "No. We checked."

Jane asked encouragingly. "So Agent Zhang?"

Slowly, "It's possible but unlikely she was the first abduction without motive, especially one that was done perfectly."

Jane gave them a moment to think before voicing the conclusion he'd already reached. "She left willingly."

Spangler offered, "Maybe she knew the person."

"As experienced detectives, any sense someone she knew lured her away based on your interviews?" Lisbon barely kept from rolling her eyes as he flattered the young agents. She appreciated how far Jane was bending to make it work ... for her.

Danielson, "We double-checked the SFPD's interviews with family and friends. No threats, no arguments, no one who seemed to have a grudge. Their finances are in order."

A long ago conversation with Jane echoed in Lisbon's mind. _'You're just going through the motions.' 'The ... PD did their job well.' 'So you're just gonna do the same job over again? ... Use your intuition.'_ She spoke up for the first time. "Anything domestic? Affairs or spurned would-be lovers?"

Spangler answered, "Damon Fuller is as straight arrow as they come. He served in the military, got his law degree, up-and-coming attorney in a respected firm." He quipped, "With his work schedule, he wouldn't have the time or energy," then sobered self-consciously.

Lisbon's eyes narrowed, "What do you mean?"

He swallowed uncomfortably. "He works long hours. He made partner by 30. The only way the guy would have time for an affair is if it was on his schedule." He added hastily, "Which nothing was."

"And Mrs. Fuller?" Jane asked.

Danielson answered, "It seems she is devoted to her husband. They met when he was a guest lecturer and she was a student. No one's even hinted at an affair."

Jane continued, "Mrs. Fuller doesn't work, though she has a law degree, yes? And they have no kids?" The agents nodded.

Lisbon summarized, "There's no ill will among family and friends and no indication of domestic discord. I have to ask, what about Damon Fuller?"

Danielson, "We verified he was in Sacramento all that day. There's nothing remotely shady in his past." Looking pointedly at Jane, "Anyhow what would his motive be?"

Jane smiled engagingly, "Unknown. The possibility Mrs. Fuller left voluntarily is more likely than a robber who leaves valuables, a kidnapper who skips the ransom, or a flawless first snatch by a lunatic."

Lisbon wrested control from Jane. "Agent Danielson, we'd really like to see the alleged crime scene and then talk with Damon Fuller at his home. Can that be arranged?"

"Yes. A moment." Danielson turned to his team. "Spangler, keep looking into their backgrounds, push it back as far as you can. Zhang, follow up with Forensics. Any prints from strangers, any hits in the criminal data base, anything else. Woodman, ask Mr. Fuller if he's recalled any more friends, relatives, or current or former neighbors who are worth checking. Focus on anyone who might have strong feelings, good or bad, for either of them. Ask Mr. Fuller to be available about two hours from now. Everyone, call if anything significant turns up." Spangler and Zhang returned to their desks and Danielson ended the call with Woodman.

Danielson turned to Lisbon and Jane. "Ready?"

"We'll follow you. First the mall then Fuller at his home?"

"Yeah. The addresses are in the file."

"We'll see you at Mrs. Fuller's car. Call if anything changes." They had exchanged business cards earlier.

Ninety minutes later Lisbon and Jane exited their SUV and stretched after the long ride to San Francisco. Crime scene tape stretched between light posts surrounded Mrs. Fuller's BMW, making it easy to spot. The forensic techs had finished yesterday so it was unguarded. Danielson and Lisbon exchanged comments as they approached the car. Jane drifted away, intent on making his own observations without distractions. He ambled back after several minutes in time to catch Lisbon's question.

"Did you eliminate car trouble? It could be a game changer if she accepted a lift because her car broke down."

Danielson froze then reddened. "I don't know," he said tightly. "It's a late model car and we assumed SFPD had already checked..." Jane rocked back on his heels, not bothering to hide his amusement since he was behind Danielson.

Tersely, "Is it open?"

Danielson handed her a key fob. "The husband gave us a spare when the car was found."

Lisbon donned latex gloves from her pocket, clicked the fob, and slid in and inserted the key. The BMW instantly purred to life. She put it in gear, foot on the brake, and it was ready to go. "Apparently it wasn't car trouble." She turned off the ignition. She and Jane checked the car interior and glove box but found nothing interesting. After all, SFPD detectives, CBI agents, and forensics techs had already been there. They left for the Fuller home.

Once underway Lisbon spoke first, "Anything?"

Half shrug. "Her car wasn't merely out of CCTV range. It was precisely mid-way between the nearest two cameras and as far from the stores as possible."

"You think that was deliberate. Any theories?"

"I need to meet Fuller and see their house."

After a lull she commented, "They sure are green."

"That they are. Danielson's no Teresa Lisbon." She flicked his arm for his backhanded compliment. "More experience will help eventually. Zhang has promise."

Danielson turned into a driveway. They parked behind him in the circular drive and got out. The house was up-scale middle class. It was large and solid without ostentation, whispering rather than shouting affluence.

Woodman answered the door, hand hovering above his weapon. At sight of Danielson Woodman moved aside and Fuller stepped forward. "Agent Danielson," Fuller greeted.

"This is Ms. Lisbon and Mr. Jane. Director Hightower is having them consult on your wife's disappearance."

Fuller shook their hands and waved them toward the living room. Jane glanced into the den as they passed. A laptop screen glowed on a pristine desk, awaiting Fuller's return.

Noticing, Fuller said, "I'm working from home till – till Brianna is back. I still can't believe she was abducted."

Jane opened his mouth to comment but Danielson beat him to it. "We haven't pinned down exactly what happened, sir." Fuller took an easy chair. Lisbon and Danielson sat across from him on the sofa. Jane remained standing along with Woodman, who unobtrusively stood near a corner.

Danielson, "There hasn't been a ransom demand. Has there been any unusual contact from any source?"

Heavily, "Nothing." He looked desolate.

After apologizing for the repetition, Danielson and Lisbon began their questions. Danielson had Fuller recount their life for the two prior weeks. Lisbon subtly focused on Danielson's relationship with his wife. Jane browsed the room.

Jane spoke into a lull in their questioning, "Mr. Fuller, who are these children with your wife?" He held up a framed photo.

"They're my brother's kids."

"And in this picture?"

"My sister and her kids."

"Aren't there any photos from your wife's family?" he asked, glancing at a half-dozen photos featuring people with familial likeness to Damon Fuller.

"Only her parents – there," he pointed to a photo of an elderly couple on the other side of the bookcase. "She's an only child. Her parents passed away a few years ago." Her parents resembled no one.

Jane nodded at the information. "If you don't mind, I'd like a cup of tea. Which way is the kitchen?"

Fuller's forehead wrinkled a moment, then his shoulder twitched and he waved his hand toward the back of the house. "That way."

Fuller didn't notice Danielson's annoyed look but Lisbon did. She quickly asked another question.

Jane walked down the central hall, silently opening doors and glancing inside as he went. Woodman frowned from the living room doorway but said nothing. Jane hesitated a moment at the stairs, then nimbly and quietly mounted them two at a time. A creaking floorboard upstairs momentarily caught Fuller's attention, but he dismissed it to finish answering Lisbon's question.

Ten minutes later Jane ambled back to the living room with a cup and saucer. He leaned against a bookcase, elbow resting on a shelf. Danielson and Lisbon were finishing up.

"Mr. Fuller," Jane asked when Fuller looked his way, "what's your wife's favorite color?"

"What?"

"Her favorite color – what is it?"

"Um," after several seconds, "blue? Maybe? But what does that–"

"You've been married seven years. You're about 42 and your wife is 31, correct?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you have kids?"

Fuller stiffened. Coldly, "We decided to wait. I do not see what–"

Easily, "I'm just seeking insight into your wife. I'm trying to understand why a stay-at-home married woman who loves kids hasn't had any by her 30's."

"That really isn't any–"

"–Is there a medical reason?"

Fuller flushed and stood. Angrily, "That is none of your business. This conversation is over."

Ice versus heat, "Just for the record, _is there a medical reason?"_

"No. Now get out." Fuller pivoted to Danielson who was now standing, flabbergasted and anxious. "Any further questions need to come through you, Agent Danielson. Stop wasting time and find my wife!" He flung his arm toward the door, dismissing them. Danielson, Jane and Lisbon made their way out. Woodman stood stock still, eyes wide. He stayed to wait for a ransom call that might or might not come.

The door slammed.

Danielson waited till they were out of earshot then wheeled on Jane. "What the hell was _that_? I heard about you at the CBI. But screwing with the victim's husband for – for what, your amusement? You're ruining the case!"

Coolly, "We don't know Mrs. Fuller _is_ a victim. _You_ don't know what happened much less who might be involved. Mr. Fuller is very much a person of interest. As you so elegantly put it, I am 'screwing with' with the husband to solve the case."

Danielson stood mute with anger, hands fisted.

Lisbon stepped between the men. Emotionlessly, "Agent Danielson, you will have to trust there's good reason for Jane's questions. It'll be day's end by the time we're back in Sacramento. If you don't mind, I'd like to pick this up first thing tomorrow at the CIB."

Danielson stiffly nodded, no less angry but mindful the _Director_ had forced these consultants on the case. On him. He ground out, "Tomorrow at 8" and left.

 **Lisbon and Jane, En Route, San Francisco to Sacramento**

Fifteen minutes into the drive Jane opened, "You're angry." He stared out the passenger window. When she didn't reply he risked a direct look rather than using the window's reflection.

"I'm ... resigned." Sharply, "It's two hours past lunch. I need coffee and a bloody slab of meat way sooner than Sacramento."

"Resigned _and_ angry." Conversation lapsed.

Lisbon drove to a favorite haunt from her years in SFPD. Suddenly, "Are you happy?"

His forehead creased in surprise. "Who are you and what have you done with Teresa Lisbon?"

She threw him a glance. "Stop figuring out why I'm asking so you can tell me what I want to hear. _–Are you?"_ They pulled into a parking space at the steakhouse.

He waited till they were seated and had ordered beverages. Peeking above the menu he read her determination and accepted there was no way out of this conversation. Carefully, "I am very happy to be with you, to be married. You know I enjoy solving crimes."

She drained half her coffee as soon as it was served. Her shoulders relaxed for the first time since Fuller's house. "A perfect Jane answer," she said without heat. She patted his hand. It wasn't an argument she was after. "It hides more than it reveals." She sipped her coffee this time. "For the record, I love being married to you too. It's this PI thing I wonder about."

Wary, "In what way?"

Pulling a Jane, "Tell me which cases you've enjoyed."

He rubbed his forehead. There wasn't much enjoyment. So far. That was insignificant compared to his commitment to his marriage and, by extension, to the law-enforcement identity of his wife. "I, uh–" he hesitated and licked his lips.

She squeezed his hand. "Let me. The cold cases are fun. They're just the puzzle, no red tape, no green agents, no stupid people involved. You hated the case of the kidnapped girl because every case involving a hurt child hurts you."

"But–"

"–But nothing. That's true even though we rescued her." She didn't dare think about the fallout had they failed. "You loved returning Agapito to his grandmother."

He sipped his tea and shrugged. Guarded, "So what?"

"So today. You hate the Fuller case: Pompous, self-important people with dysfunctional lives. You already know what happened–"

"–Not exactly–"

"–A Jane hunch. In other words you've solved the case. And now there's the tedium of dealing with Fuller and Danielson. Static from Hightower because Fuller might be her next boss. –Why was the CBI better, Patrick?"

Jane blinked at his given name. He ran his hand through his hair. "I didn't have to be nice, I just had to be right." He stopped, having revealed more than he wanted.

She gazed at him with that limpid, open look that took in everything. "They weren't clients. You could play, compete, cooperate without having to court people you disliked. The team became _your_ team, partners in the game." She looked down, summoning the will to voice her realization. "Having our own agency means having clients. This is never going to be fun for you, is it?"

"Teresa, we're solving cases, putting away the bad guys. That's what y – we want. There were plenty of CBI cases where we–" he snorted and corrected, "where _you_ had to stroke self-important idiots. I'll manage."

She attacked her steak, chewed and swallowed several bites. She pinned him with her gaze. "We're in this together. _I'm_ not even sure being a PI is all it's cracked up to be." She exhaled with puffed cheeks. "In the CBI we got all kinds of cases. Now we're not gonna get the Agapitos unless it's a cold case. The PD's and CIB and FBI will only pay when it's the important and powerful. ... I have to think about this." Topic closed.

He stole a steak fry, relieving the weight of their conversation. She filched an onion ring in retaliation. They turned to other topics.

They talked over the case on the way back. Being married meant Jane shared his thinking, his leaps of logic and intuition. Jane promised to smooth things over with Danielson. And Hightower if necessary.

 **CIB, Sacramento, Friday Morning**

Jane and Lisbon exited the elevator at the CIB fifteen minutes before 8 a.m. Danielson caught sight of them and frowned before quickly affecting a neutral expression. Zhang and Woodman weren't in yet.

Jane murmured to Lisbon, "He complained. Hightower shot him down."

She whispered back, "Don't get cocky. I bet Fuller called AG Gordon who'll pressure Hightower."

"Meh. We'll have it solved soon. No one will care after the wife is back."

Jane stopped at Spangler's desk and asked about the case evidence. Lisbon shoved latex gloves into Jane's hands with a glare. Spangler went to a box on a shelf and pulled out Brianna Fuller's cell phone for him. Jane browsed the cell phone until the other two agents arrived.

Fuller's whole team and the two consultants gathered in the conference room. An SFPD detective was now stationed at the Fuller home.

Danielson began. "This is the third day Brianna Fuller's been missing. With no ransom demand, an abduction seems increasingly unlikely. SFPD is with Fuller in case a call does come in. You'll be more use here, Woodman. We'll start with you. Did Fuller come up with any more people that had a close connection to him or his wife?"

"No. We're now down to second cousins, army buddies and the like. He isn't in touch with any of them anymore. He couldn't think of anyone else connected to his wife."

Danielson turned to another agent. "Zhang, what did Forensics find?"

"There were prints from nine different people in the BMW, all but two sets from friends and family. The two others were from a BMW dealership employee and a Sacramento detailing shop worker. There was no blood, no unusual chemicals such as a sedative, no illegal drugs. The car itself is in good condition. There are no signs of a fender bender or anything."

"Did you check the overnight PD reports for any arrests or murders of white women around age 30 in surrounding counties?"

"Yes." He double-checked a printout. "There were several with positive ID's as someone else. There were only two unidentified women. A 20 year old was arrested for public drunkenness, passed out. She looks nothing like Mrs. Fuller. There's a female DOA from a car accident whose face was badly mangled. The tattoos rule her out."

"Old tattoos?"

"Yeah."

"Spangler?"

"I researched both Fullers back to childhood. Both lived quiet middle class lives. Neither has a record other than a few speeding tickets and a mandatory safe driving course. There was nothing off about either and no reports of any stalkers. No criminal records among family members or close friends."

"Agent Danielson, if I may?" Jane asked politely. Danielson nodded. "Mrs. Fuller's parents were old for a 30-year old – I mean before they passed. Did they really have her that late in life?"

He shuffled some papers. "The mother and father were 69 and 71 when they passed two years and five years ago, respectively. She was adopted as an infant by the Morgensterns – the parents."

"Any drama there?"

"Not so far as the paper record goes. The adoption was legal and uncontested. It was a closed adoption so there was no contact or identifying information exchanged between the birth mother – um, parents – and adoptive parents."

Danielson looked around the table. "There isn't much to go on." He looked at the consultants with a hint of challenge. With exaggerated politeness, "Do you have any suggestions?"

Lisbon spoke first as she and Jane had agreed. "Possibly. We have to respect the evidence, even when that's mainly _lack_ of evidence. There is no sign of abduction, assault, or accident. There are no reports on injured or dead women in surrounding counties that fit Brianna's description." Tactfully, "There's always the possibility of a freak one-off, but I think the more promising possibility is that she left of her own free will."

"How does that help? We got nothin' on that angle."

Jane demurred calmly. "There's more than you think. She left her purse and, more importantly, her driver's license and credit cards. I assume you're monitoring the cards?"

Spangler nodded. "There haven't been any new charges."

"Without a government photo ID, she can't fly. Without credit cards, she has to use any cash on hand. If, as I believe, she was planning this that's likely to be hundreds rather than thousands."

Spangler dug through the sheaf of papers. "There've been some cash withdrawals." Skimming the list, "There were sporadic small withdrawals till about a month ago. Since then she's withdrawn around $400 a week for a total of about $1,500."

Jane nodded in appreciation. "That's something, but it wouldn't last long between travel costs, hotels, rental car, and sundries."

Frustrated, Danielson objected, "Great. She could be almost anywhere in the US."

"But she isn't."

Danielson threw it back in his face. "So what's her motive? Nice house, nice life, decent husband who loves her. C'mon."

Patiently, "A nice life but not perfect. Damon Fuller wasn't certain of her favorite color after they've been married for seven years. She was a law student star-struck by the young, handsome, ambitious guest lecturer. He marries her, putting in place one more element of _his_ perfect life. Partner by 30, nice home, loving wife ... who stays at home even though she has a law degree. But there are those long hours he works. Look at her PDA. Her calendar is filled with busy-work – yoga, jazzercize, cooking classes, book clubs, subdivision beautification committee – both daytime and in the evenings. Who is spending time on their marriage?"

Danielson shook his head. "She's bored, maybe would be tempted by an affair. But leave?"

"She still adores her husband. Her calendar has stars next to every evening he's _scheduled_ ," he smirked, "to be home. She doesn't want an affair, she wants her husband's attention and to have kids."

The team wore puzzled expressions.

"There's a clutter of framed pictures of his nieces and nephews and a refrigerator covered with them. She was an only child, an adopted one at that. Her one substantive activity is volunteer tutoring at three local elementary schools." Spangler surreptitiously confirmed that with another printout. "Fuller says there's no medical reason they can't have kids, just that they decided to wait. _He_ decided they'd wait till a more convenient time for him."

Danielson blinked, realizing there was a point to Jane's behavior. Evenly, "You make sense. But where is she? How do we find her?"

"Brianna Fuller left to sort through her feelings, figure out what to do. She has no close relatives from her family, hasn't kept up with college friends, and doesn't have work colleagues. This isn't a vacation. She wants somewhere safe with someone she trusts, someone who might empathize. She doesn't have much cash, so ideally the person would put her up. Strange as it sounds, I think she's with one of Damon Fuller's relatives." Jane leaned back, finished.

"–We checked–"

"–No one–"

"–They would have told–"

"Cut it," demanded Danielson. He faced the consultants. "You make a good argument, but it's all speculation. My team has checked damn near everyone on Damon Fuller's side since he's the only one who can provide names. I am open to suggestions."

Lisbon spoke. "We're convinced someone was overlooked. Jane and I want to accompany your team to talk to Fuller's siblings again. They'd be familiar with the activities of all their children – some of whom are grown, right?"

Danielson nodded. "Okay. I'll go with you to speak to Fuller's brother and sister. You three," he glanced at his agents, "call the adult nieces and nephews and probe for anyone that might have been missed. Someone who Mrs. Fuller might have met, might have something in common with."

He looked at the consultants, wariness balanced with respect. "Give me half an hour to arrange the meetings."

 **Small Town in Eastern Oregon, Friday Afternoon**

The door closed softly as the young guy eased inside, welcoming the cool, dim relief from the heat and dust and workweek. A ball game glared from the flat-screen in one corner, volume turned low.

"Whatllyahave?"

"Beer. Whatever's on tap," he ordered with a sigh, his lanky, pale form slumping as he took a bar stool.

It was the third night he'd appeared. Alone. Quiet. A city guy based on the trendy sneakers, Dockers and inexpensive short-sleeved shirt.

As with most eastern Oregon small towns, the wealth of natural beauty hadn't translated into monetary riches. Private employment was limited to hospitality and tourism – courtesy of breath-taking scenery and outdoor adventure, – timber, farming or ranching, and manufacturing. 'Limited' was the salient fact. Change was always unexpected, always noteworthy in the backwater area. Rumor had it that a handful of outsiders were in town from a big timber company. Unmanned drones were getting data needed by powerful, remote executives.

The young guy sipped his beer and wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced at the screen then frowned as the black pitcher struck out a second man. A local slid onto the adjacent stool and put his drink on the counter.

"Rooting for the other team?"

The young guy glanced at the man: Callused hands, muscles, dusty boots, jeans, worn long-sleeved shirt, unruly hair. "I don't care for the pitcher."

"You're new. Here with the surveying team?"

"Why do you ask?"

He stuck his hand out. "Rance Decker. I'm curious about anything new."

After a moment the young man shook his hand. "John Whitman. Yeah, we're here surveying the standing timber." As he moved to face Decker his elbow tipped his glass, spilling the last few ounces. "Oh, damn–"

Decker grabbed a wad of paper napkins. "–Here." He blotted the beer. "Jerry," he called, "get John another beer, will ya?"

"You don't have to–" Whitman started but was distracted by two men entering the bar.

"–Ah, 'Johnny.' I wondered where you were hiding out," the tall black man boomed, his grin all bared teeth and no humor.

Whitman scowled. Jaw clenched, "Just leave me alone, Jeffers."

The man ambled over to Whitman trailed by his slight, olive-skinned companion. "You cut out two hours before the work was done. Not much of a team player."

Whitman swiveled to face him. "If you were halfway competent you'd finish on time. I'm not gonna carry you forever."

The bigger man snorted. "You barely pull your own weight, little man." His companion nervously nudged his arm in silent plea.

Whitman flushed and stood, tall but still inches shorter than the black man. Jeffers was half-again his weight, all of it muscle. "You've been a pain in the ass since you were hired. Do your own work and leave me out of it."

Jeffers scanned the bar. His glance was returned with cold hostility. "Seniority won't protect you from competition forever, white boy." He glanced at his companion, "C'mon, Hussein. This isn't our kinda place." They left, warily watching the crowd from the corners of their eyes. They roughly pushed past an entering customer and were gone.

After a few deep breaths, Whitman sat back down, muttering, "Damn affirmative action anyhow."

Decker leaned back with a grin. "Hey, don't be shy. Call him what he is," and used the racial epithet that would have started a fight, one that would get Whitman fired from any major company in the US. Now he'd find out what opportunities this new guy offered.

 **Jane Residence, Sacramento, Friday Evening**

Lisbon terminated the call. She walked over to Jane who was napping on the couch after swimming to cool off from the heat wave. Peering down she figured he was only dozing and nudged the couch with her knee.

"Whazzit?"

"Danielson called. They found Brianna Fuller."

He blinked and sat up. "What, um, what's the story?" he asked through a yawn.

"Demont Farrel was fostered by one of Fuller's nephews. The son of Fuller's older brother fostered Farrel till he aged out of the CPS system five years ago. He's 24 attending graduate school in Colorado. Everyone forgot Brianna met Farrel at a family reunion. Being adopted, I guess she felt a connection. They kept in touch, unknown to anyone else. She went there by train and will be back tomorrow evening."

"By train?"

"She has to since she can't fly without photo ID. Anyhow, Fuller's happy, Danielson's–" She broke off to see who was calling now. "It's Hightower." She answered, "Lisbon. ... Yeah, Danielson just called with the news. ... We're glad too. ... I hope he isn't still annoyed. We figured it might blow over when he realizes Jane's questions were key to finding his wife. ... You're welcome. Hey, it's good business for us. ... Enjoy your weekend."

Lisbon tossed aside the phone and joined him. Arm thrown over the back of the couch she played with his hair which had dried untamed after swimming and a quick shower.

"What do you want to do this weekend?"

"It's been a busy week. How about we keep it low key? There are new recipes I'd like to try."

"You're welcome to cook anytime. Just nothing too weird."

"So the chocolate covered ants are out?"

She shuddered and drew away. "You're making it up."

"Nope. Termites and all kinds of bugs are high in protein. Nutritious. The greenies recommend them for a sustainable planet."

"You can have them all. And they better be dead before you bring them in here."

He grinned, "My favorite bundle of contradictions. You face down thugs with guns but faint at a few bugs."

She elbowed him in the ribs, not appreciating mention of that event. "If I recall, you pitched a fit when Rigsby's snacks attracted vermin in the bullpen–"

"–Easy for you to say. You had an office. Rigs was right next to my couch!" he protested with faux outrage.

"You lobbied Minelli to ramp up the extermination service."

He yawned again. "That I did. –Oh, what about having the team over next weekend? Swimming would be nice in this weather. I'll do the grilling."

She looked unhappy. "I don't know."

He hugged her. "Hey. I told you it will be just the adults. Now that everyone's in the same town again, I would like to," he shrugged, "well, enjoy their company more."

She relaxed against his chest, lulled by the warmth and comforting thump of his heartbeat. _I can understand that after two years in exile. Not just his, mine too._ "You arrange it, oh master manipulator. I get veto power over the menu." She stirred and looked up. "We don't _have_ a grill."

"Not to worry. I'll arrange that too."

Jane turned and put his feet up, pulling Lisbon to lie against his side. They fell asleep, content in an overall successful week and happy in their foothold on married life.


	10. Chapter 10 - Expecting

**Chapter 10: Expecting**

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Saturday**

Jane woke early and swam before brutal sun and heat rendered even that unpleasant. He showered, made coffee and was back in their bedroom with the precious elixir in a trice. He waved the mug past her face, which was half-buried in a pillow.

"Enough beauty sleep. We have a grill to buy."

She rolled over. Sleepily, "What?"

"Rise and shine."

"What time is it?" As planned, she reached for the coffee instead of whacking him for waking her.

"Seven. Stores are open and we can go before the crowds."

She pushed herself up to lean against the headboard, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sipped more coffee. His words finally sorted themselves into a coherent thought. "You woke me at seven on Saturday to shop for a grill?"

Brightly, "Exactly. C'mon."

She frowned and rose, clutching the mug to her chest. Glaring, she grabbed some clothes and retreated to their bathroom, mumbling, "Be glad I want a shower more than pounding sense into you." The door closed sharply.

He smirked and straightened the bed. She was up. A shower, a bear claw, more coffee, and they'd be on their way.

 _We're night and day_ , she grumped as the warm water washed away sleep's muzziness. _I_ would _marry a freak who bounds out of bed rarin' to go._ Barring exhaustion, injury, or activities best done horizontal, Jane was fully alert the moment he woke. Not obvious during the CBI years of chronic insomnia and exhaustion, the trait was now was a point of friction. _Mr. Enthusiasm wants to go grill shopping at the crack of dawn. What the hell's so great about a grill? Every last house in California has one. ... House. ... Home. ... Friends. ... Oh._ By the time she dressed she was warming to the thought of the visit and showing off their home. This was reclaiming another bit of normal life. Jane's brief sojourn into normal disappeared with his family's murder. And her? She hadn't felt the security and love of _home_ since she was 12.

One shower, a bear claw and more coffee later, and ... they sat at her computer checking consumer ratings of grills. Jane was glad she was participating, but impatient.

"I think we should choose from these brands, agree?"

"Fine."

"What features?"

"Really, Lisbon? Can't we just get going?"

"Not till we agree on the features."

He huffed, "Okay, how about this one?" He pointed to the top model of a preferred brand. The extra bells and whistles added a thousand to the price.

"You're gonna do the grilling so you should have the most say. But there's gotta be a reasonable chance you'll actually _use_ the capabilities. –Do you have to have a smoker?"

"Pete makes the best barbeque you can imagine by smoking."

"Will you?"

He tipped his head back and forth. "A-h-h, probably not."

"What about the rotisserie and hot plates?"

He bounced on the balls of his feet. "I'll use the rotisserie. The hot plates could be useful for side dishes."

"Unlike our stove that's ten feet away?"

Two hours later they bought the mid-range grill of a very good brand. The huge box containing their new grill – 'some assembly required' – would be delivered before next weekend. Jane assured her he could follow instructions to assemble the grill – perhaps _despite_ the instructions (thanks to global trade). He countered her snark by noting he'd grown up assembling carnival rides with nary a fatality.

Lisbon waited patiently when Jane dawdled at the home-improvement store. Ever the magpie, he was charmed by all the clever special-purpose _stuff_ for a house. He made it up to her by suggesting her favorite burger place for lunch.

 **Small Town in Eastern Oregon, Friday Afternoon**

Jason Wylie checked that the corridor was empty then ducked into the hotel room across from his. The door was unlocked.

Cho looked up from the computer screen. "Wylie." Ojara and Hassan nodded their welcome. Each wore outdoor clothes – jeans, hiking boots, sun-block shirt.

Wylie joined the three around a small table. "Any activity?" The drone transmitted pictures of a pick-up truck parked next to a modest house.

"No. Likely still sleeping it off." Cho looked him up and down. "Why aren't you hung over?"

"I stuck with beer. Decker and Lassiter switched to whiskey."

"Going to see them today?"

"I'm meeting Decker at the diner for lunch. He said he has a favor to ask." At Cho's unspoken query he added, "No idea what he wants."

"Good that he wants something. We don't have enough for a search warrant yet. Dangerous?"

Wylie shook his head. "They were pretty chummy last night. I think they bought my story." He frowned and faced Ojara. "Hey. What's with the 'little man' crap?"

Ojara grinned, "Served the purpose."

Hassan embellished, "I thought you might take a swing at him."

"How did you – ah, forget it." Annoyance gave way to a grin. "I hate that nickname. My uncle called me that till I grew a foot senior year."

Cho brought them back to the case. "I'll shadow you since Decker doesn't know me. Ojara, Hassan, track Wylie with a drone, out of sight. Wylie, you're on your own if you go inside. Maybe you should wear a wire."

"It'd be a dead giveaway if they found it. Let's use my cell phone as a mic."

"Audio pick-up isn't great."

Wylie smiled. "Mine is. It's, um, customized." Cho nodded his approval. Ojara and Hassan went for breakfast, killing time till Wylie's lunch.

Several hours later ...

"... shouldn't be hiring foreigners to take American jobs. I have friends who had to train their replacements before they got canned."

Decker asked sympathetically, "Why'd they do it?"

Angrily, "They'd get fired if they refused. No job, no severance pay. Screwed coming and going."

"Y'know, I like you Whitman. I run a little political group that'd be right up your alley."

"What d'ya do?"

"We demonstrate against the kind of shit you described. Write letters to representatives, that sort of thing. –Was that the story with your 'colleagues'?"

"The black guy's American. He's just got a mouth on him and wants help every time I turn around." Sarcastically, "Hussein is a ref-u-gee. They screw up their country then come here. But they don't support American values, they want us to live by their religious law. Stinks." The server dropped off two checks for the meal. Wylie reached for his.

"I got it, John." Decker figured out the tip and put a few bills on the table. He leaned back, sipping his iced tea. "You know computers, right?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Would you try and get my membership program working?"

"There's no computer support in town?"

Casually, "There is. But my members prefer to keep it private. People who think different might make it hard on them. Can you take a look?"

He shrugged. "Sure. I've got the weekend to kill. We continue surveying on Monday."

"What about your coworkers?"

Scornfully, "You think I spend my free time with them? I don't know if they're even around. Show me your computer."

Decker grinned and gulped the rest of his tea. "I'll drive."

It was a slow afternoon. The drone tracked Wylie to an old house and storage shed at the edge of town, but within range of WiFi reception. No one lived there; it was just the meeting place for Decker's 'political group.' A hundred yards away in the forest Cho listened via Wylie's cell phone with binoculars trained on the house. They didn't reappear for three hours.

Decker dropped Wylie off in front of the hotel. He leaned toward the open passenger door.

"Thanks for working on my computer."

Wylie nodded. "I can finish up tomorrow in an hour or two. I need to make sure those updates loaded okay. And that there are no interactions with other programs. If you keep up with revisions from now on it should stay fixed."

"See you tomorrow at ten in front of the diner. I need to go home to the wife and kids or she'll nag all weekend."

"See ya." Wylie waved and turned to the hotel.

A few hours later the four agents reconvened in Cho's room with Chinese take-out to avoid attracting attention. Ojara and Hassan were staying in case Decker needed more convincing that Wylie shared his views. Even more importantly, they'd be back-up if the op got violent. They split the food and dug in before talking.

Hassan shook his head in wonder. "You hit the jackpot when the target _invites you_ to pick through his computer."

Wylie snorted. "No one loaded updates for two years. No wonder it was hanging up."

Cho spoke, "What's on the computer? Will it get us that warrant?"

"There's no document titled, 'Terrorist Attack Plan,' but it seems to be the computer his group uses for everything. I recognized some names of people who've been arrested for hate crimes." He chewed and swallowed another bite. "Between their membership rolls and a spreadsheet of their invoices I'm hoping there'll be leads."

Cho looked thoughtful, "If there aren't, can we monitor their WiFi computer activity?"

"Yep. Can't believe they'd do illegal stuff over unsecured internet access."

Ojara jibed, "Why not? High government officials do and they're better educated and better paid." With impeccable timing he continued before Cho could redirect him back to the case. "Think you can remember enough information to work with?"

Wylie grinned. "My trusty flash drive remembers everything."

Cho again, "What if you're searched?"

Wylie fished out a tiny flat rectangular object. Courtesy of the field's relentless innovation, it was a fifth as large as Bertram's thumb drive found by the SCU just three years ago. It was encased in plastic except for the metal plug. "This will hold everything I download. I'll swallow it if I have to."

"Don't get caught."

He didn't.

Gratitude for the computer fix notwithstanding, Decker and a sidekick searched him before he left the house that afternoon. The drive fit neatly between his cheek and jaw. Luckily, they weren't paranoid or thorough enough to search his mouth. He didn't have to swallow it.

 **Jane and Lisbon, Sacramento, Monday and On**

The weekend passed quietly without chocolate-covered ants.

Lisbon parked in front of the their office building. Jane was startled to realize it was only a week since his impromptu interrogation test. That reminded him of the missed appointment at the fertility clinic. He'd have to reschedule it for a time when he could vanish for a couple hours without Lisbon thinking anything of it.

Abduction, marketing, and two cases had superseded reading their business mail. They sorted through the accumulation. Lisbon generated an invoice for the CBI's Fuller case, then both happily settled down to read through several new cold case files. Mid-morning, receptionist Heather forwarded a business call to Lisbon's cell phone.

"Lisbon. ... Hey, Jorge, it's been a while. ... Yes, my own agency with Patrick Jane. ... Really. We're available if you have something for us?" Jane looked up from the couch in her office. "I hadn't heard you left SacPD for LA. ... Congratulations on landing Deputy Chief. ... " She interrupted, "–Before you get into it, let me put this on speaker so Jane can listen in. Hang on." She switched on her cell speaker and set it on her desk. Jane moved from couch to a chair at her desk. "Go ahead."

Lisbon and Jane were on a flight to LA at seven the next morning. The taxi dropped them off at the LAPD headquarters. Lisbon walked toward the entrance then turned back when she realized Jane had stopped.

"Jane?" She lightly touched his arm. He unconsciously sought and gripped her hand, belying his neutral expression. Her forehead creased as she puzzled it out. The Malibu sheriff would have gotten help from LAPD for a double homicide. Eventually SacPD would be called in when the PD realized it was a Red John murder. It was the last Red John case SacPD handled before referring it to the CBI. Quietly, "We can pass on the job if you want."

That night 14 years ago he was dazed and incapable of noticing his surroundings. Subconscious memories triggered deep disquiet nonetheless. He took several deep breaths and squared his shoulders. "It's all right. The past just needs to stay there. Let's go."

Lisbon mentally reserved the right to reconsider. Jane had made an astonishing recovery, but the fault lines would always be there.

The information clerk directed them to Elliott's office.

"Teresa, long time." Elliott rose and extended his hand.

"Jorge."

He turned to Jane and paused a moment, looking him over. "So. Law enforcement and now a PI." He warmly shook Jane's hand with the other on Jane's arm.

"Deputy Chief Elliott," greeted Jane stiffly. Lisbon couldn't decide if Elliott's familiarity or Jane's acquiescence was more surprising. Then she remembered: Jane had hounded Elliott weekly about the Red John case ... until he was institutionalized.

Elliott shook his head slightly. "I, um, I'm happy that you made it." He coughed in embarrassment. Quietly, "That you got the bastard." Jane stood silent, fidgeting with one hand.

Lisbon stated pro forma, "There was no official finding." Technically McAllister's murder remained open, unsolved. No one cared.

"Yeah." Elliott cleared his throat and motioned them toward the door. Gruffly, "Let's talk about today." He led the way to a conference room occupied by several tough-looking detectives.

Some years ago a dangerous, relentless campaign by the LAPD had rooted out the brutal MS-13 gang. The vicious nationwide network of Salvadoran gang members had recently begun to re-infiltrate LA. Elliott's gang unit needed information fast and keenly wanted to know if any LA gangs had become allies. The gang unit leader finished his briefing.

"How would we fit in?" Lisbon asked.

"The Deputy Chief says you can figure out a lot from reactions, even if they don't say anything," he answered eyes flicking to Jane. "We have hundreds of gang members and not alotta time to sweat them for answers. Maybe you're a shortcut?"

"Are they all from the US – or Central and South America?" asked Jane.

"Pretty much."

Jane nodded, "Then I can help. How would this work?"

"We'll round up groups of three to five. We need to know if they've been contacted by MS-13, if they're working together. Who they contact will give us a leg up on stopping them."

"Nice, crisp questions. If that's all you need, we could handle it line-up style. Pose the questions to a group. Pull out anyone who reacts for further questioning."

The unit leader looked pleased. "That'd be faster."

Lisbon asked, "Would there be any field work? Will Jane participate in follow-up questioning?"

"Nothing in the field. If he can get a better read in person, we'd want that."

"What's your time frame?"

"We're already behind the curve. I expect we'll need three days including today."

Lisbon asked Elliott. "May we have a moment?"

He nodded. "Stop by my office when you're done." Everyone filed out except Lisbon and Jane.

"Do we want the job? It's gonna be all you, Jane."

"Yes."

"What if some don't speak English?"

He half smiled, "I spent two years immersed in Spanish. I'm not fluent _speaking_ Spanish, but comprehension isn't a problem."

"I–" Lisbon broke off as her cell chimed. "Lisbon. ... Good morning, Director." 'Hightower,' she mouthed. "I'm glad Mrs. Fuller returned. Is there something more on the case? ... Oh. Yes, I'd be interested. How long is it? ... By Friday?" She glanced at Jane. "Can you hold for a second?" Lisbon put her cell on mute. "Hightower wants me to review a draft protocols manual for the CIB. They need it Friday."

"I've got this. Take the job if you want."

She un-muted her cell. "I'll pick it up tomorrow. –We can be flexible on price since it's not a case."

"Let's wrap this up with Elliott." He rose.

"Jane," her hand stopped him, "stay out of trouble. No goading gang members without LAPD in the room."

"Promise." He gave her a surprise peck on the cheek. "No worrying, my dear."

 **FBI, Sacramento, Tuesday, Early Evening**

"–Good night." "–Tomorrow." The CT task force agents straggled out after demolishing two pizzas (neither had pineapple), ending the first 'successful op pizza' celebration. The operation's success would help the FBI thwart violent acts by Decker's network, but the threat could persist indefinitely. Cho decided timely recognition was important when definitive closure could be a long time coming.

He had to acknowledge the just-finished op now since the team would start a new initiative tomorrow. Muhammed and Hassan would attend mosques posing as a married couple to judge whether hot polemic was likely to lead to violence. Wylie would trawl social media and other sites with particularly virulent rhetoric. Vega would investigate people who might pose a threat. Ojara would check out black Muslim groups and Muslim prison congregations as leads arose. Everyone would look for connections beyond the local.

Vega returned from the women's room to get her things. She brushed past Wylie's desk then paused. He was staring at a dark computer screen. Coke and a half-eaten slice of pizza were off to the side. They were the youngest members of the team and were closer than they were with the others.

He looked up when she dropped into the chair next to his desk. "Congratulations on the good work." She let her admiration show.

He bit his lip and nodded. "Thanks."

 _Why doesn't he look happier?_ "You were worried about field work. It turned out great and we got way more than expected."

"It was just a con. Nothing physical."

"Even better. Smarter. Double points when you get what we need without force." After a moment she decided to ask, "So what's the matter?"

His eyebrows rose, "Nothing really."

Her sharp gaze raked his face. "You can't mope after a good op and say 'nothing.' Spill."

Wylie rubbed his forehead. He sipped his Coke and grimaced but continued drinking the flat, tepid liquid. "I know what Decker is, what those guys are. But..."

She tilted her head. Gaze shrewd and keen, "But some of their gripes sound legit, is that it?"

"Yeah."

"I've thought about this," she snorted, " _Of course_ I have. You see real problems in US immigration and race relations. That's no lie. There _are_ problems."

"What's your point?"

"The difference is you recognize real problems that should be solved. People like Decker want an excuse to hate. –Jason, what would happen if all their complaints were addressed?"

Wylie frowned. "It wouldn't change anything?"

Her dark eyes glittered like obsidian, "They'd find other excuses to hate. There is something awful in humanity. Some people need to step on others to make themselves feel better. Powerful. Successful." Wylie leaned back, paying attention. She added softly, "Forget making sense of them. Our job is to keep them from acting on that hate."

Wylie blinked and straightened. "Thanks, Vega." He rose. "I know some fun gaming sites. Wanna play?"

She grinned. "Sure."

 **Rigsby-Van Pelt Residence, Sacramento, Wednesday**

Van Pelt heard her husband enter and drop his things in the foyer. He ambled into the kitchen and gave her a one-armed hug.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself." She turned back to the stove. "Dinner's ready in ten minutes."

"Where's the baby?"

"Right here," Min answered as she came in and put Taylor into her high chair.

Nodding to Min Rigsby ruffled Taylor's hair. "How's my little girl?" He tickled her until she was breathless from giggling, then stopped and gave her a kiss. He filched a cherry tomato from the salad bowl. It had taken scouring the internet and a lot of trial and error but Van Pelt finally had a collection of healthful recipes that he liked, even salads.

"I'm going now, Grace," Min said as she got her backpack.

"Okay. Oh, I almost forgot. Could you watch Taylor Saturday evening from around five to midnight?"

"I didn't know you had away cases."

"We don't. Patrick and Teresa – you met them at Ben's birthday party – invited us to a pool party. The pool isn't kid-safe. We'll pay for babysitting since it's not for work."

Min shrugged. "I don't have plans. I'll–" she bent over and handed Taylor a toy that fell to the floor, "do it for take out." Fondly, "She's a sweetheart. She'll mostly be sleeping anyhow."

"Thanks. We'll know for sure by Friday."

"I'm flexible. Bye," Min breezily waved and left.

His wife lightly swatted his hand as Rigsby reached for another tomato. "Leave some for dinner."

Rigsby thoughtfully stared at the closed door. "She's come a long way."

"Min?"

"Yeah."

"She doesn't seem that different to me," she said, distracted by getting Taylor's food ready.

"It was months before she'd say 'hi' to me. Now look at her. I'm really surprised how good she is with kids too."

"Uh-huh. That's because Taylor is such an easy baby."

"All kids." Rigsby set the table as Van Pelt brought over Taylor's food. He munched on a piece of crusty French bread while placing the serving dishes on the table. "I'm famished."

She eyed him. "No! –How come?"

"We were on a stakeout and missed lunch."

"Did you get him?"

" _Her_. She copped to it after 30 minutes of questioning. –How's your fraud case?"

"All wrapped up. They couldn't believe we decrypted their files. Sometimes smart people are so stupid." They sat down to dinner. She split her attention between helping Taylor and eating her own dinner.

"If they really were smart they wouldn't be criminals." Rigsby ate steadily for several minutes till his hunger was blunted. "Jane called you too?"

"He called from the case he's working in LA. I assume you want to go?"

"Sure. It'll be nice seeing them. He said Cho's coming. And you can't beat a pool in weather like this," he added looking out the window at the air shimmering from the heat.

She speculated, "The pool must've been put in before all the child-proofing laws were passed."

"It'll be more relaxing if–" Rigsby reached over and wiped up a blob of chocolate pudding before it migrated from tray to hands to clothes to kitchen. "–we don't have to mind our little urchin."

 **Lisbon, Sacramento, Friday**

Lisbon pulled the mail from their PO box and hurried to the SUV. She had to make a bank deposit and then drive to the airport. Traffic permitting, she'd be there when Jane came outside after his flight.

That morning Hightower had handed her a check for the Fuller case when she dropped off the edited draft protocols. Reviewing a document _sounded_ simple, but it turned out Hightower wanted an in-depth review and suggested revisions. The manual desperately needed a strong dose of realism from someone who had been an agent and team leader. Lisbon knew Hightower could have provided that, but probably had more pressing concerns. Thanks to the Blake corruption, all of California law-enforcement was painfully short on seasoned detectives, agents, and team leaders.

She pulled up to the ATM and fed it her card and then the check. _The money's nice for us but what a waste of taxpayer dollars. We got more satisfaction from rescuing Agapito for $300 than finding an unhappy wife for ten grand._ She sighed. _Yeah. When the politicians ask my advice I'll be sure to tell 'em._

After Hightower, Lisbon spent the rest of the day assembling the grill. She was delighted to find Campbell had equipped the garage with a workbench and basic tools before they moved in. In LA, Elliott's three days had turned into four, with each day ten or twelve hours of intense concentration for Jane. When he called on Thursday night Jane said he'd assemble the grill on Saturday morning. Lisbon decided to do it since he already was doing the shopping and cooking. Jane said all three of their friends could come, making it the first time since she and Jane returned to Sacramento.

She drove slowly to the sign for his airline, hoping he'd show up before she had to circle around. _There!_ She pulled over. _He's limping? I'll be pissed if he broke his promise._ She took a breath. _Ask first. Just ask first._ Jane was sincerely trying to rein in his worst – most dangerous – impulses. She was determined to meet him halfway.

Jane tossed his carry-on onto the back seat, then got into the passenger seat with a sigh. Before she could pull away he leaned over for a 'Hey, miss me? I missed you,' kiss. He leaned back, eyes closed.

"You look wiped. Everything go all right?

"It did. Paying close attention all day is tiring."

"Anything surface?"

"Seven guys from three gangs have been contacted by MS-13. Two gangs are from LA, one, San Diego." He frowned. "MS-13 may be playing the local gangs off against each other. To what end, I'm not sure." He yawned hugely.

"The gang unit now has a place to start. Wait – _San Diego_?"

"Elliott lent me to the San Diego PD on the theory it's so close they'd make overtures there too. Good thing he did." Jane winced as he shifted his left leg.

Neutrally, "How'd you get hurt?"

"What?" He waved it off. "It's just a bruise. Two guys from enemy gangs scuffled in the hall. I got kicked."

Lisbon didn't respond as she merged onto the interstate. _Should have been safe but I swear he's a magnet for trouble. I should know better!_ She was relieved it appeared minor.

"Did you finish the work for Madeline?"

"I dropped it off this morning. She got her money's worth."

"I expect nothing less from Teresa Lisbon."

"Whole sections sounded like a college professor wrote them – all theory, no real world experience."

Jane instantly thought of Wainwright – _Geez, dead four years now._ He didn't mention it.

She added, "Overall it's a good manual. Hightower's implemented big improvements compared to the CBI. I'm glad for Van Pelt and Rigs." A wistful tone laced her words. She abruptly changed topic. "Van Pelt, Rigs, and Cho are coming?"

"Yes. Cho's between ops. I told him he could bring someone but I doubt he will."

"That's Cho. We wouldn't know he's dating till we get a wedding invitation."

"Grace and Rigs can make it because other teams are on call for the weekend. Grace decided not to bring Taylor when I explained there's no fence around the pool."

Quietly, "Thank you. ... I'm looking forward to seeing everyone."

Home at last. Jane took his carry-on into the bedroom to unpack and re-pack. Lisbon dropped the mail off in her office to deal with later. They ate dinner while watching TV. When Jane fell asleep in the middle of the nature special Lisbon called it a day. They turned in, happy to be together after several nights apart.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Saturday Evening**

Lisbon watched, amused, as Jane finished prepping the half dozen dishes he had made from scratch.

"You know they would be fine with burgers and beer. –I hope you're enjoying all this work, Jane."

Only half paying attention, "I am. Cooking's a pleasure when it's creative."

"Have you _met_ 'I'll-eat-a-ketchup-packet-if-there's-nothing-else' Rigsby? Cho's not fussy and neither am I. And it's fifty-fifty whether the food will square with Grace's latest health kick."

Jane slid the tray of chicken satay skewers into the refrigerator and put the mixing bowls into the dishwasher. He sat next to her at the counter. "I'm sure they'll like it, every bit of it." He leaned toward her and asked in honeyed voice, "Want to bet they don't?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course not. Doesn't mean I'm wrong." She finished her soda and stood. "We said 6 p.m. We should get ready."

"Go ahead. I'll be there after I finish my tea." She shook her head and walked away. It was 90 degrees at the end of the day but Jane still drank hot tea. When she teased him, he simply pointed out it wasn't 90 degrees inside their air-conditioned house.

Jane watched appreciatively as Lisbon put on her boyshorts-and-tankini swim-wear. It featured rather more cloth than he thought necessary, but his wife was conservative to the bone. Still, she'd look beautiful in a burlap sack and he got to enjoy the view as she dressed. Lisbon pulled regular shorts on over the swim-wear and fastened her hair in a ponytail. She jarred him alert with the flick of a towel.

"Show's over. Hurry and get ready."

"Eh. Like that will take so long." He lazily rose. He shed his clothes and pulled on swimming trunks and an old dress shirt. He neatly rolled up the sleeves and only half buttoned it in consideration of the heat. "Three minutes flat." She didn't say anything about the bruise the size of a softball on his thigh. He caught her glance and half-shrugged, dismissing it.

Lisbon put on quiet jazz for background music. Jane took spatulas and tongs out to the grill, then squatted pool-side and checked the water. It was cool, rather than icy. The sun was still hot enough to burn were it not for the retractable shade over the patio and pool. It'd do. The doorbell chimed.

"Jane, Lisbon."

"Cho, welcome." Lisbon gave him a quick hug.

"Hey, Cho." At Cho's steely glance Jane contented himself with a handshake and fond pat on the arm.

Their friend handed Lisbon a gift-wrapped box, about 18" by 9". "What's this? We didn't expect–"

"Housewarming. Something every home needs."

"Oh. Well, thank you." She smiled and gave it to Jane. Jane grinned knowingly but said nothing, figuring Cho would like to surprise at least one of them. He stepped away to put it on the dining room table.

The doorbell chimed again.

"–Boss." "–Teresa."

"Wayne, Grace. Glad you could come." Lisbon accepted a hug from Van Pelt and a handshake from Rigsby. She stepped back as Jane walked up.

"–Jane." Rigsby offered to shake but Jane pulled him into a bear hug, holding it a second too long just to mess with him. Rigsby flushed, half amused and half annoyed, knowing exactly what he was up to. Jane grinned in shared amusement.

"–Patrick." Van Pelt's eyes widened at the sight of him. Jane grinned and returned her enthusiastic hug. She stepped back and stared.

"Problem, Grace?"

"It, it's just you're not wearing your three-piece suit."

"Not ideal for swimming." He smirked, "I wasn't born in them, you know."

She swallowed and tore her gaze away. "Uh, yeah."

Lisbon smiled in pleasure at the company of her friends-almost-family. Her husband, who used to avoid physical contact, was welcoming and even initiating hugs. _It's all different with our makeshift family_. It had been three years since he'd seen Rigsby and Van Pelt other than one visit when the FBI rounded up Blake members in Sacramento, and their brief meeting with Hightower. _Far too long._

Rigsby stepped back outside and got two packages. "For you." He handed the small one to Jane.

Jane nodded, "Thanks."

Van Pelt took the flat, 36" x 8" package and gave it to Lisbon. "For your new home."

"Thank you, guys. I um–"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, it's no big deal and you're welcome," Van Pelt said brightly.

"Two bit tour first. Then drinks and snacks. Dinner after swimming," Jane announced. Glancing to be sure Lisbon agreed, "We'll open your gifts with dessert."

The tour was short as it was a moderately-sized four-bedroom home. The renovated interior featured lots of wood and tile, comfortably large rooms, sleekly modern bathrooms, and a kitchen that evoked envy. Cho was intrigued by Jane's escritoire and got Jane to reveal the clever hidden drawers. Van Pelt teared up at the framed crayon drawing but turned away before Jane noticed. Rigsby appreciated the workbench and tools in the pristine, air-conditioned garage. All were impressed at having ten acres that close to the center of Sacramento. The group finished toward the rear of the house near the kitchen and sliding doors to the pool. All chose beer, except Van Pelt who went with fruit juice. With the now more comfortable temperature in the 80's, they settled into the chaise chairs around the pool, nibbling on cubed fresh fruit, dip, and chips.

Rigsby and Van Pelt talked about their work. Their teams were invariably in the top five at the CIB for cases closed and conviction rates.

"What about Danielson?" Lisbon suddenly asked.

Rigsby, "You worked the Fuller case with him, right?" She nodded. "He's okay."

Van Pelt added with a slight edge, "He _will be_ with more experience. He's green as grass now."

"I was surprised," Lisbon admitted. "He was fresh from the academy before the CBI folded."

Van Pelt sighed. "There are a lot like him. Blake wiped out a bunch of agents who would now be experienced enough to handle their own teams." Her lips twitched in a non-smile, "I mean, except that they were criminals."

Jane asked, "What's Hightower doing about it?"

Rigsby answered, "The best she can. She freaked out when the FBI's Blake round-up got one guy already at the CIB and another she was about to hire. We're short-handed." Jane raised his eyebrows when Rigsby described Hightower as freaking out. _That's new._

Van Pelt added, "Worse, we don't know what's coming. Gordon is retiring. There are rumors Fuller might not even run after that mess with his wife. Hightower's distracted."

Lisbon settled back, "Glad we're out of it."

Cho, "How's your PI agency?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "Good enough. We're getting cases, making money. The PD's are sending us their cold cases–"

Jane interjected, "–which is a steady supply of entertaining puzzles."

Cho, "You never liked cold cases at the CBI."

"I never _admitted_ liking them lest I encourage inconvenient expectations. Besides, working fresh cases with the team was far more entertaining."

Lisbon finished, "It's good."

"Do you like it?"

She hesitated then said, "Mostly. I don't really like the marketing. It's a work in progress, I guess. –Oh, have you heard if ICE–"

Cho finished, "–caught and deported Contreras and Serrano? Not yet. I'll keep checking."

Slightly embarrassed at asking repeatedly, "I appreciate it, Cho."

Rigsby asked, "What about you, Cho? How's the new task force?"

"Successful first op." He avoided identifying details since Rigsby and Van Pelt were not FBI. "Wylie went undercover to get information to justify a subpoena on our target group. They _invited him_ to fix their computer problems. We're following up leads for a whole network that might be planning attacks."

Van Pelt ruminated, "I always thought Wylie was a talented guy. Though I'm surprised he did so well on – what – his first undercover op?"

Cho looked at Jane. "Jane coached him. I wonder how Ojara knew 'little man' would get to Wylie. Made it look real."

Jane spread his hands. "Who me?"

Rigsby interjected, "Hang on. 'Little man'? Wylie's almost my height."

Cho pressed, "How did you know?"

Jane sported a mischievous grin. "Emotional triggers set in childhood are permanent. Wylie was short and slight until late high school." Jane shrugged. "He'd want to be taller, probably was teased with short jokes." He glanced at Lisbon with a wicked glint in his eyes. She glowered at him, daring him to bring her into it. He wisely stopped talking.

Cho persisted. "How could you know he was ever short?"

Jane sipped his beer, decided to answer. "The way he moves. He reacts to the word 'short.' He unconsciously underestimates his physical presence. A lot of things."

Rigsby shook his head. "Whatever. It's all magic, man."

Jane drank the last of his beer and rose. "Time to cool off." He shed his shirt and deck shoes, walked over, and smoothly dove in, not surfacing till half the length of the pool. Rigsby and Cho followed him into the pool. Lisbon and Van Pelt stayed seated.

"You had a ridiculously good-looking team, Boss."

"Easy on the eyes. All of them."

Van Pelt's gaze lingered on Jane, still impressed with the novelty of casual clothes and, now, being nearly naked in swimming trunks. "I always wondered what was underneath those three pieces. He's–" She stopped herself and blushed.

Lisbon's eyebrows rose. "Really, Grace?"

She frowned. Defensively, "We worked together for a decade and he never wore anything else."

Now amused, "Should Rigs be worried?"

"Of course not! I'm just saying Jane is an attractive guy."

Lisbon relented. "As are Rigsby and Cho. C'mon. Let's join them."

They spent an hour swimming, splashing and playing. Finally Jane stood in the shallow end and wiped the water from his face.

"Ready to eat? It'll take about half an hour." Everyone nodded. He gracefully pulled himself up and out, grabbed a towel and his clothes and disappeared inside.

The water was a pleasantly cool contrast with the still-warm evening air. The four lounged against the side of the pool at the deep end.

"Why'd you get a house with a pool?" Rigsby asked.

"Jane wanted one. Swimming's his favorite exercise."

"Never knew he did anything except sleep on that couch."

Cho demurred, "He'd exercise in the CBI gym. When he couldn't sleep." Each silently translated, 'When he was desperate to sleep.'

Lisbon said, "That's in the past. He's doing okay, we're okay."

Cho frowned and faced her. "Maybe not."

"What?"

Bluntly, "Jane was roughed up during the FBI's Blake operation last year. A few weeks back he was beat up on your case. Today he's got one helluva bruise. Jane should work on self-defense with Rigs and me." Rigsby looked uncomfortable but not surprised; Van Pelt, dismayed.

"That wasn't a good idea last year. It isn't now."

Frustrated, Cho looked away then back. "Boss, it's dangerous. You've got no back-up. You're handicapped by having to protect Jane."

Tightly, "Jane and I are managing."

Rigsby licked his lips, stood taller and plunged in. "You called us for information to solve a case–"

Cho added, "–And the FBI."

"–and help from PD's is a crap shoot."

Lisbon took and released a long breath. "Not your business, Rigs."

Rigsby doggedly tried another tack. "Boss, our two-person agency worked because we did cyber security. White collar crime and electronics and computer systems stuff. As best I can see, you're doing law enforcement with no tools. You don't have back-up, arrest authority, or information access. Most of your cases will be one-off's with a PD. They don't know how you two work." He leaned toward her. Slowly, intensely, "They won't have your back." He looked around to include Cho and Van Pelt for support. "Sooner or later one of you gets hurt."

Van Pelt echoed quietly, "We're worried."

Lisbon blinked, taken aback. This Rigsby was a surprise. At the CBI he'd bent over backward to avoid her ire. She regrouped and looked to each in turn. "I have some of those concerns myself. I don't know what Jane and I will do, but I promise to think about what you said. I, uh, I appreciate your concern."

The group awkwardly broke up. Van Pelt and Lisbon got out and dried off. Cho and Rigsby swam laps.

Jane came out with trays of food ready for grilling. He looked around, instantly sensing the different atmosphere. He caught his tongue between his lips for a moment, then decided to let it go d ask Lisbon what happened later.

Pleasantly full after dinner, they relocated inside to avoid mosquitoes now that it was twilight. Dessert was a homemade meringue pie paired with a dessert wine. Lisbon cleared the table while Jane went out to close down the grill. Van Pelt disappeared into the powder room. Cho and Rigsby drifted into the living room.

Rigsby exclaimed softly, "Hey, look at this. Photos of Jane's family – first family."

"Uh-huh." Cho perused Jane's music collection and then gave a low whistle as he checked out the audio system. "He has good taste."

Rigsby motioned him over. "He was young and carefree. Happy."

Cho's eyebrow twitched, "We all were younger 15 years ago. Of course he was happier before his family was murdered, what's your point?"

Rigsby shrugged. "No point. Just interesting. Glad he's doing better."

Lisbon paused in the kitchen doorway, waiting for a break in their conversation to ask if they wanted more wine. Neither noticed she was there.

"When's Grace due?"

Rigsby blinked. "How did you know?"

Cho frowned in distaste, "She was eating pineapple chunks with peanut butter. She has to be pregnant."

Rigsby grinned, "You just hate pineapple. –January. Twins!"

"Three kids under three. You'll be busy."

Lisbon silently returned to the kitchen. Jane came in a minute later to find her gripping the counter edge so tightly her hands were white.

"What's wrong?"

She swallowed and whispered, "Nothing. Grace is pregnant with twins."

Jane sighed with infinite sadness and hugged her. "Hey, it'll be all right. We'll solve this ... somehow."

She gradually relaxed and exhaled a long shuddering breath. Grimly, "Let's get this over with."

They joined their friends in the living room where the gifts awaited them. Jane carried it off with aplomb. Lulled by beer, wine and good food, the three agents didn't notice anything amiss.

"Cho, my man, you said every home needs this. Shall I guess?" At Cho's stare, "Ah, maybe not. Teresa, perhaps you should open this."

Lisbon took the box and tore off the gift wrap. "Cho, it, it's beautiful." She tilted the chess set up so all could see." The board was inlaid marble on a felted backboard; the pieces, polished milky quartz and black soapstone.

"The FBI lost your other set when the CBI was disbanded. Thought you should have one."

"–Thank you." "–Thanks."

Jane lifted the long narrow package and the 8" cube. "Which is next?"

Rigsby pointed, "That one." Jane unwrapped a sampler box of fine English teas. "It's a subscription and each month they send a new assortment. I hope you like it."

Jane opened the tin and inhaled deeply. "Rigs, thank you. A perfect choice." He set it aside and picked up the long, narrow package. "Who opens this one?"

Van Pelt said, "I think you should open it together."

Jane set the package across his and Lisbon's knees. They tore the wrapping paper off to reveal a plaque, simple and handsome. Jane read, "It takes a long time to grow old friends."

Lisbon swallowed hard.

Jane smiled brilliantly and said, "Yes it does. It has. Here we are after all these years. Thank you."

"Thank you," Lisbon said in a choked voice.

Their friends gathered their things. To Rigsby's obvious delight, Jane had divided the left over food between Cho and them. The group tentatively agreed to get together every several weeks, time and cases permitting. After another round of hugs, Jane and Lisbon bid them farewell.

Jane closed the door softly. He turned and took his wife in his arms. She buried her face against his chest. "Dammit, I don't want to be this person." She sniffed and struggled to even out her hiccuping breaths. His shirt was wet under her face.

Softly, "What do you mean?"

"We couldn't ask for better friends. I should be happy for Grace and Wayne, not sad and angry. Why them and not us? It's a stupid question, it's just – Dammit, I know life's not fair, I just want a baby." She shook her head and pulled away. A minute later he heard the shower.

Jane closed up the house and went upstairs to wait for her to finish. She finally joined him in bed in the dark. They embraced, each providing solace for the other.


	11. Chapter 11 - ART

**Chapter 11: ART**

 **Lisbon and Jane Home, Sacramento, Sunday**

Jane woke first and took care to let Lisbon sleep in. Not a morning person at the best of times, she didn't need more stress after yesterday's emotional night. He mulled how to move forward as he made tea and coffee and straightened up after the gathering. Being together, being married, was more than he ever expected to have again. But their happiness would be shadowed until they somehow resolved having a family. He frowned, recalling the awkward moment with the team just after he'd brought out the food. He'd have to find out about that as well. Deciding, he snapped his fingers and grabbed his car keys. A quick trip and he'd have everything needed.

Lisbon slowly floated toward consciousness. Feeling gray and drained, she was in no hurry to fully wake and face why. When she could resist no longer she flung off the covers, got fresh clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. She took a draught of coffee from the insulated mug Jane left then plunged into a steaming shower to wash away the emotional turmoil more than any physical grime. So many daunting obstacles were gone: Red John, the threat of Jane's death or imprisonment, law enforcement corruption, his exile, Cannon River, an FBI job she didn't want after all. Yet happiness required more than the absence of problems. Try as she might, she couldn't deny wanting a family and couldn't bury the problem in work. Work itself was disappointing. _How does that go? The joy of running your own business is exceeded only by that of natural childbirth?_ She couldn't counter Rigsby's – and Cho's and Van Pelt's – concerns. She shared them. Suggesting Jane learn self-defense was a non-starter. Her husband had many astonishing talents. Martial arts would never be among them. Training would just encourage a reckless impulse to help at the worst possible time. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and faced the world.

She grabbed the mail from Friday as she passed her office. She could use the distraction as she ate. A glance outside showed the Citroen was gone, so Jane was out. She refilled her coffee and got fruit and cereal. Between bites she sorted the mail, discarding half without opening. Finished eating, she picked up the discard pile for recycling. One envelope caught her eye. _Heavy bond paper, stamped envelope. Addressed to 'Patrick Jane' not 'Occupant.' From a Dr. Robinson._ Her forehead creased. _What if it isn't junk mail?_

Lisbon startled as the kitchen door banged the wall. Jane entered carrying two bags in one arm and a cooler with the other. He nudged the door closed with his foot.

"Jane."

Jane turned in surprise. "Good morning." He set everything down and dropped a kiss on her cheek. Frowning at her distress, "What's wrong?"

She held out the envelope. "What's this?"

He looked down and away, then back. "Um." Any thought of deflecting or denying vanished in the face of her concern. _Most wives can tell when her husband is lying._ He stepped closer. "I saw Dr. Robinson. I'm fine, no need to worry. We do need to talk."

She tilted her head. _Not lying, but tells me nothing._ "Why did you go to a doctor?"

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, gazing unseeingly at the brilliant day outside. "This is a bigger discussion than I want to start now. –Let's get out of the house, go someplace beautiful."

Her gaze was steady. "How can we ignore whatever this is? And the stuff from yesterday?"

"We won't." Determined, resolved, "It helps to remember there's more to life than problems." Earnestly, "Can we enjoy the day as well as talk?"

She bit her lip. After a moment she nodded. "Okay. So long as we do talk."

He dumped ice into the cooler, followed by sandwiches and other food. They were out the door in ten minutes.

They took the Citroen. Jane drove.

After a half hour and thirty miles, the sun in her eyes finally got her attention. They were heading east. "We're not going to the beach?"

"The whole world's there on weekends and it's too hot unless we wanted to swim. The mountains are cooler."

"Where exactly?"

"A little state park forty miles west of Reno. It's beautiful. Usually deserted."

Eyebrows raised, "That's the middle of nowhere. How did you find it?"

"I didn't, Daisy did." She half-turned toward him, waiting for the story. "It was unusually hot when we were returning from the Midwest circuit. The truck broke down and Daisy got away from Pete. We found her frolicking in the park lake." He mused, "When Pete quits the circuit I'm going to find a wildlife preserve for Daisy."

"A what?"

"Elephants live a long time and remember their friends for decades. I think she'd enjoy being with other elephants."

Dubious, "How will Pete feel about that?"

"He'll gripe but he's got a soft spot for Daisy. An elephant's a lot of work and expense. By the time they quit he'll appreciate being done with that." He grinned. "They'll have an excuse to travel and visit her."

She teased, grinning, "And you, Patrick Jane? Will you visit her too?"

"Of course. I–" He stopped, not wanting to speculate about outings with kids they might never have. "Will you come?"

"Maybe. Probably." She mulled the idea of having that kind of time and flexibility. Doing things _with_ Jane was entirely different from killing time for two years in Cannon River. A recurring thought surfaced. Cautiously, "Your carnival doesn't do much with animals. Pete seems fond of Daisy–"

"–He is."

"–so why bring an elephant into that life? It's pretty ... unnatural."

His expression became serious, "The carnival traveled all over. She was just a baby in one of those deplorable roadside zoos. Skin and bone, living in filthy conditions." His expression darkened with the memory.

" _Who_ found her?"

He cleared his throat and shrugged, avoiding her eyes. "I told Pete. He paid them fifty bucks. Made an offer they couldn't refuse."

"How?"

"Pete's pretty scary when he's mad. They didn't dare refuse."

"When was that?"

"Thirty-five years ago."

She nodded and let it drop, pleased to learn another bit of the Jane puzzle.

They arrived mid-day. Lisbon could well believe the park was lightly used. There was no exit for it from the interstate. They had to drive through a small town and out several miles to the park road. Weeds were colonizing the gravel parking lot. They used a dirt path to carry their stuff to a clearing beside a fifty-acre lake fed by a mountain stream. Tall deciduous trees protected the clearing and provided shade. The healthy green was a relief from the widespread brown of dead pines killed by beetles. Forest duff was soft beneath their feet. The only other visitor was a person fishing at the far side of the lake.

Lisbon stretched after the long drive. "It's beautiful. And cooler." Looking around, "Where does that path go?"

"Around the lake. Do you want to eat first or explore?"

"Let's do the path." She glanced down. "Shouldn't we lock up our things?"

"Why? No one's here but that fisherman. The food's in a cooler so it won't attract bears."

She looked worried for a moment, then decided he was pulling her leg. He wasn't but didn't push it, preferring that she ignore the low threat of bears. Nature had nearly erased the path around the lake. They leisurely made their way, even making a detour around a fallen tree.

By the time they returned they had the park to themselves. Jane flattened a patch and spread the blanket over the springy trampled grass. Lisbon laid out the food – deli sandwiches, potato salad, cookies, bottled water and a thermos of hot tea. They ate, put the trash in the cooler, and lay side-by-side on the blanket. Pleasantly full and pleasantly tired they drowsed contentedly.

Softly, "What are we going to do, Teresa?"

Her sigh was a mere ripple in the calm. "I've tried setting it aside, tried being content with what I have." She fondly nudged his leg with her knee, him being the best part of 'what I have.' "No matter what I do I can't deny wanting kids."

He found her hand and laced fingers. "Nor should you. What is more fundamental than raising our young?" He exhaled deeply. After a bit. "We've been trying for a while and it hasn't happened. Maybe it's time to see if doctors can help."

She tensed beside him, remembering. "You went to a doctor. Why?"

He shifted uneasily. "I, uh, I wanted to know if I was the reason we haven't gotten pregnant."

She blinked and frowned. "You saw a _fertility_ doctor?"

"Yeah."

"But you had," near whispering, "Charlotte. You know you can father kids."

"My dear, that was 20 years ago. I don't know if the heavy meds in the asylum did anything. Or perhaps just time." He rushed to explain, "Don't be mad for not telling you. I wanted to know if I could solve our problem."

She looked at him, gaze open and warm. "Not many men would consider it could be them." She swallowed, "What did the doctor have to say?"

Ruefully, "I have no idea. I was kidnapped and missed the follow-up visit. No doubt his letter's a reminder."

Lisbon propped herself on an elbow and fished for the envelope from their things. She handed it to Jane. He tore it open and held the letter so both could see.

After reading she said, "No details, but he says there's no reason to think you have a problem." Her forehead wrinkled with dismay at the implication.

Gently, "We won't know unless we both get checked. –What do you want to do?"

"Adoption is a good thing." Jane's pain didn't register in the face of her own turmoil. "I never thought I'd go the medical route..." She drew a deep breath and voiced her decision, "But I want to try to have a baby. –What do we have to do?"

He snorted softly. "They practically beat me over the head with how we both should come in. I'll make an appointment."

Unhappy but resigned, "Okay."

He rolled onto his side and kissed her cheek, then sought her lips when she turned her head. "Love you."

"Me too."

He put his arm under her head, drew her close and lay back. Medicine wasn't the path they wanted to travel, but it felt better to act rather than passively hope. She'd nearly drifted off when he asked, "What happened when I was inside yesterday?"

She tensed. He looked at her with eyebrows raised.

"They think we need more support on our cases."

"They're worried."

"Hm."

"Cho?"

"At first." She craned her neck to look up at him. "Rigs pushed it more than Cho. He never would have done that at the CBI."

"Fatherhood."

"What?"

"Rigsby deferred in the past. Being a father brings out his protective instincts." At her puzzled look, "We're family-enough to trigger that reaction."

She nestled against him. "Huh. That's sweet."

His quiet, "Yeah," was tinged with sadness.

They woke an hour later and packed up for the drive back. Decision made, the tension was gone.

 **Lisbon and Jane, Sacramento, Wednesday**

Jane shepherded Lisbon into the waiting room and signed in. A cancellation and their flexible schedule got them an immediate appointment, perfectly consistent with Jane's luck in avoiding the ordinary hassles of life. Lisbon privately thought it was more shamelessly exploiting his charm and good looks than luck, at least when he curbed his sharp tongue. Her faint guilt at any unfairness had faded with familiarity; it didn't hurt that she now benefitted as well. Her reservations about the medical route were offset by relief at being able to _do something_. Jane's initiative to see a reproductive doctor without even telling her was as comforting as it was surprising. ( _He wouldn't make that appointment if he didn't want kids.)_

She looked around, upset at the sight of several pregnant women in the room.

Jane whispered, "It's auspicious. Obviously this _can_ work."

She took a breath and tried to see it that way. Rather than fidget she got them cups of the complimentary tea and coffee.

"Lisbon and Jane?" A nurse showed them to Dr. Robinson's office.

Robinson entered a minute later. He extended his hand, "Ms. Lisbon, Mr. Jane," then sat facing them across his desk. "Let's begin by telling me why you're here. Ms. Lisbon?"

She looked at him levelly, chin slightly raised. "I want to have a baby with my husband. We haven't used contraception for the last 18 months and it hasn't worked. I hope medicine can help."

"Was there any sign you might have conceived at any point?"

"No – um, maybe. My periods are very regular but a couple of months ago I was two weeks late," she swallowed and looked down. "Then my period came."

He nodded. "Mr. Jane?" Robinson paid close attention, alert for signs they might not be in agreement especially after the man had made the initial appointment alone.

"The same. We want a child and hope medicine can help. I missed my follow-up visit because of work. –Law enforcement."

"You indicated you want to do as much as possible today. Does your schedule permit you to stay for about two hours?"

"–Yes." "–Of course."

"Mr. Jane, we covered your medical history, exam, and tests during your first visit. We need to do those for you, Ms. Lisbon. Then I'll meet with you both in about an hour to review your results and determine how to proceed."

"–Thank you." "–That's fine."

Briskly, "All right. Mr. Jane, please wait in the reception area. Ms. Lisbon, please follow the nurse." They rose. Jane nodded encouragingly to Lisbon then left for the waiting room. A nurse led Lisbon to an examination room and gave her an open-backed examination gown.

They reconvened an hour later.

"Mr. Jane, Ms. Lisbon." Robinson motioned for them to sit and glanced down at two folders on his desk. "Do you have any questions before I begin?" Both shook their heads. He cleared his throat. "I'll start with you, Mr. Jane. Your sperm sample was normal – fine in quality and quantity–"

"Quality?"

"Motility, percentage of abnormal sperm and other factors." He continued when Jane didn't comment, "It's favorable that you have fathered a child. –One?"

"My first wife, Angela, miscarried twice before our daughter was born when I was 22. And Teresa probably conceived a few months ago..."

Lisbon blinked at that. _No wonder he's more comfortable with fertility issues than I would have thought. Always surprising._ She tuned back into the conversation.

"Was a reason established for the miscarriages?"

"Angela had a hormonal imbalance. Charlotte was born a year after she was treated."

"Multiple pregnancies are a positive sign, especially since the reason for the miscarriages appears to have been with your first wife."

Jane shifted slightly in his chair then asked, his face a neutral mask, "I was treated with several drugs for clinical depression 14 years ago. Is that relevant?"

Robinson scanned a page from Jane's medical file. "Post-puberty males generate sperm throughout their lives. Studies suggest there would be no lasting effects from the drugs you listed, especially that many years in the past." Jane leaned back in relief.

He continued. "The only apparent relevant factor is age. Male fertility gradually declines with age, though there is no sharp cut-off. You likely can father children for the foreseeable future."

He paused. "Any questions so far?" Lisbon and Jane glanced at each other, then shook their heads.

"Ms. Lisbon, based on your history, examination, and initial tests, you are a 42-year old woman who is in excellent health. We've ruled out many of the medical problems that would affect fertility," at her curious expression he expanded, "Endometriosis, polycystic ovary syndrome, fibroids, IUD contraception, obesity, extreme exercise, eating disorders, and thyroid problems can contribute to infertility, but none of those apply to you. There are no adverse indicators in your family's history, either, which is good. The biggest factor is age." She silently nodded for him to continue.

"Unlike males, females are born with all the oocytes – immature eggs - they will ever have. As a woman ages, so do her oocytes. Female fertility declines with age – and sharply declines after 35 although naturally there is individual variation. Infertility is diagnosed after failing to conceive after a year of unprotected intercourse, or a shorter period if the woman is over 35." He nodded encouragingly. "You are well-advised to seek medical help."

Lisbon sighed at the expected but still disappointing information. Dryly, "So is there much chance?"

"Without medical assistance the average odds of conceiving at age 42 are about 5% per monthly cycle. That is low, but it still means a 45% probability of conceiving within one year." Lisbon brightened. "It's positive that you may have conceived a few months ago. That is consistent with a 5% fertility rate and unprotected intercourse for 18 months." After a pause, Robinson added, "However, a significant portion of all pregnancies ends spontaneously."

Hushed, "What portion?"

"For women over 40, about 45%." Lisbon looked stricken. "In your case in vitro fertilization – IVF – would be the indicated medical treatment to significantly increase your chances of bearing a child."

"What are the probabilities – using IVF?" Jane asked sharply.

"This clinic achieves excellent results. Each transfer has a 22% average likelihood of a live birth, calculated according to the standards in this field."

"That's an average. –For us?"

"The probability is higher with women younger than 35, about 29%. It is just under 20% for women 40 and older."

"How often can the woman try?"

"Every month or two, depending on her tolerance for the process and determination." A millisecond of amusement flashed across Jane's face at 'determination.' His Lisbon was world-class in that trait.

After a moment Robinson returned to his patient explanation. "Fertility drugs stimulate the woman's body so several oocytes develop and mature instead of the normal one per month. At the appropriate time several ova are harvested using needle aspiration. The woman is under intravenous sedation for the very safe outpatient procedure. Multiple ova provide multiple chances for pregnancy. Excess embryos can be frozen for future attempts."

"Can unfertilized ova be frozen or just embryos?" Lisbon asked.

"The assisted reproductive technology field initially focused on freezing embryos. Recently, more work has been done with unfertilized ova. Both can successfully be frozen now with pregnancy rates similar to unfrozen ova and embryos."

Jane interjected, "What about birth defects and risks to the mother?"

"The genetic defect of trisomy rises significantly with the woman's age. Down Syndrome is the most common type of trisomy. The risk is about one in 500 at age 25, one in 50 at age 40, and one in 20 at age 45. Nothing in your medical histories suggests a heightened risk for a shared recessive genetic defect. Chromosomal abnormalities can be detected by amniocentesis between the 15th and 18th week of gestation." At their worried expressions Robinson added, "The embryo also can be genetically screened _before_ transfer. That provides a 99% probability that the embryo is not affected. There's another benefit too. Just one embryo would be transferred, reducing the risk of a multiples pregnancy without reducing the probability of a live birth." They looked relieved but puzzled. He expanded, "The risks to both babies and mother rise when multiples are involved – twins, triplets or higher. That is a major reason for using IVF with fertility drugs. Responsible clinics limit the number embryos transferred at one time to reduce that risk."

Lisbon persisted, "But you can screen embryos ahead of time for genetic problems."

"Yes." He glanced from one to the other. "The risk of birth defects is real. Babies conceived through ART are at somewhat greater risks for various medical problems, though the total incidence is low. The great majority of babies born with assisted reproductive technologies are normal, healthy infants." Looking at Jane, "Any pregnancy carries risks to the mother but with monitoring and good prenatal care, it is very safe in the US. The risks are higher with age, but your wife's good health provides the best chance of a successful pregnancy without medical complications."

Jane frowned as he recalled the basic information he'd read about IVF, "IVF involves several drugs. Do they pose any health risks?"

"Some women experience effects similar to normal menstrual cycle discomforts, just more pronounced. As with almost any drug, there can be allergic reactions but that's rare. Concerns about longer-term risks center on ovarian hyper-stimulation syndrome, cancer, and impaired future fertility. Ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome can cause fluid retention and in extreme cases necessitate inpatient care. The risk of OHSS is about one in one-thousand IVF cycles. Young women are at the greatest risk. As for cancer, in the 35 years since IVF became available there are no statistically significant studies showing higher rates of endometrial, ovarian, or uterine cancer attributable to IVF. Infertility itself is associated with higher probabilities of these cancers and IVF may actually reduce the risks. And there was concern that repeated IVF cycles might affect future fertility but there is no evidence of an impact." Robinson leaned back. After a pause he offered, "Many couples take a few days to discuss–"

Lisbon interrupted, "–If we could have a few minutes alone right now?"

"I'll check back in a half hour." Robinson rose and left.

She turned to Jane once the door was closed.

Jane suggested tentatively, "Don't you want to think about it a few days?"

Sharply, "Why? I'll be a few days older and the issues will be exactly the same." She drew a deep breath then exhaled fully in a conscious effort to relax. She took his hand and squeezed gently. "Jane – Patrick. We want a family and nothing improves with delay. There's no guarantee even if we do go ahead."

His cheeks puffed out as he slowly exhaled. He muttered, "Conception and pregnancy are so complicated it's a wonder any babies are born." He looked up at her. "You – you're not concerned about the risks?"

Her lips were a slash across her face. Shaking her head slightly, "Thousands of women do this every year. I bet most are in worse shape, physically and medically. We're really gonna worry about this risk compared to just being a cop?"

He lifted their joined hands and brushed hers with his lips. "I worry about any risk to you," then more softly, "but I guess it can't be helped." He faced her. "It's up to you."

Lisbon's forehead wrinkled, "You _do_ want kids, right? You will be okay, even after ... everything?"

He closed his eyes and nodded. "Some things may be ... difficult. But having a family again is worth it."

She straightened. "Okay. I want to start as soon as possible."

Jane slid the paper describing the IVF protocol in front of them on the desk. Skimming the sheet, "The process is pretty involved. You up for the drugs and doctor visits and blood tests and everything?"

She glanced over the protocol. "If that's what it takes. One thing our agency gives us is flexibility."

Thoughtfully, "Not if Abbott calls."

Her lips quirked. "Fortunately, your essential contribution can be handled right now."

He looked askance, "Funny. I _do_ want to be here when they harvest the eggs and other key points."

Serious again, "We'll tell Robinson you may have to travel so they have your sperm when they need it. If necessary, I can get Grace to take me to the procedure."

"But–"

"Jane. He said it's minor, outpatient for heaven's sake. Really."

He licked his lips and sighed. "All right." Uncertain, concerned, "What about birth defects?"

She sighed and slumped. "That's harder. I," she swallowed, "certainly want a healthy child. But, Patrick," shaking her head slightly, "I cannot, _will not_ kill our baby mid-way."

"What about testing for genetic defects before the embryo is transferred?" He didn't breathe as he recalled internet images of babies with serious birth defects.

She reluctantly nodded. "Yeah." Biting her lip, "We should do that testing."

"What does the Catholic Church say about that?"

She wrung her tightly clasped hands. Firmly, "We'll only go ahead if there's no genetic defect."

"What if there are more eggs than we'll ever use?"

"I don't know. Or, maybe they can be frozen before they're inseminated." She shrugged and half smiled, "Hey, the egg's unused most months. Let's ask."

Jane took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Soberly, "Teresa, are you completely satisfied with this – the process, risks to you, testing the embryos to be transferred?" He suddenly grinned, "And freezing the extra ones in case you want to start a football team?"

She flicked his arm. "I'm not some damn brood mare. Anything over four and _you_ can carry them. Men!"

They'd be lucky to have one baby, delighted to have more. But at least this would give them their best shot. They were finally _doing something_ about this important part of their future.

 **CIB, Sacramento**

The elevator doors whispered open onto the gleaming CIB lobby. Lisbon and Van Pelt waited as the elevator emptied and the hungry lunch crowd dissipated. The building was so new there wasn't even visible wear and tear. _The pall of serious crimes hasn't branded the building yet_ , Lisbon thought with a pang. Bosco's team had even been killed _at_ the CBI years ago. It really was a fresh start for the top of California law-enforcement.

"Lisbon!" Hightower's authoritative voice carried as she passed through the metal and explosives detectors.

"Director Hightower."

She glanced from the brunette to the redhead. Only half joking, "Not here to recruit my best senior agent, I hope."

"It's just Jane and me for the time being, Madeline. I owe Grace lunch."

Van Pelt added, "The file for the Miller case will be on your desk by day's end."

"Good work closing it fast. And thanks to your work, Teresa, the new procedures manual was approved unchanged. –Enjoy your lunch."

Fifteen minutes later the two women slid into a comfortable booth at a nearby bar and grill. They perused their menus, ordered, and settled back with their sodas to wait.

"What's the occasion, boss?"

"I'm not y– oh, forget it," Lisbon waved it off. "It's kind of related to the pool party–"

Van Pelt broke in enthusiastically, "That was great. I love the house and wish we had your land for the kids. And who knew Jane could cook?" She stopped realizing she'd interrupted. More subdued, "Sorry. Wayne and I really had a good time."

"I'm glad. Jane loves the tea and we hung the old friends plaque in the living room. I need to ask a favor."

"If I can. What is it?"

Quietly, "Jane and I decided to try IVF. It's been 18 months..."

Van Pelt sobered instantly. "What can I do?"

"IVF has a rigid schedule. If Abbott requires Jane's help when I'm scheduled for the outpatient procedure, we're stuck. I can't drive home after anesthesia and someone is supposed to be with me afterward." She rushed on before Van Pelt could say anything. "I wouldn't ask except my brother Tommy's still hunting skips for bail bondsmen and Annabeth is working in Chicago this summer. I even thought of Minelli but he and May went fishing in Alaska. Jane's carny friends travel the Midwest during the summer." She stopped for lack of breath.

Van Pelt looked conflicted. "Of course I'm willing to help, but I'm stuck too if I get a case. –I have an idea. Min could do it. If I have a case, she could drive and stay with you while she watches Taylor. Would that be okay?"

Lisbon slumped in relief. "That would be great. If she's willing."

"I'm sure she would be. I'll check with her tonight."

"I'm s'posed to start this week but couldn't do it until this is pinned down. Thank you, Grace." They paused as their food was served.

As she dipped a slice of bread in the herbed olive oil, Van Pelt frowned in puzzlement. "You said this involved the pool party. Did I miss something?"

Lisbon gulped a mouthful of soda. Her gaze flicked to Van Pelt's abdomen then away. "I overheard Cho and Rigs talking about your pregnancy."

Van Pelt frowned deeply and said, "I'm gonna kill Wayne. I _told him_ not to say–"

Lisbon put her hand on Van Pelt's arm, interrupting. "–He didn't. Cho guessed." She took a deep breath. "I need to apologize. I am genuinely happy for you and Rigs. It took me by surprise and I had a hard time _feeling_ that way when I first heard."

Van Pelt looked away. "Oh, God, Teresa, there's nothing to apologize for. I know you guys started trying in Austin. If anyone deserves to be happy and have a family it's you." She picked at her salad. She gave Lisbon a quizzical look. "Um, when you were at the FBI you said you didn't want to go the medical route?"

Lisbon grimaced then answered, "Yeah, well, your news forced me to face reality. I want kids. If IVF is what it takes, that's what we'll do."

Cautiously, "Would you ever consider–"

"–Adoption? Yes. But there are a lot of hoops to jump through, maybe years of delay. Law enforcement – um, PI – work is dangerous." She paused then delicately added, "A social worker I know thinks Jane's background could be a problem." She ran her fingers though her hair. "Frankly I really, really want to see Jane in our child. Sure we'd consider adoption, it's just not our first choice."

Van Pelt nodded without comment.

Their conversation meandered to Hightower, Cho, Wayne and Jane (everyone not present was fair game), shop talk, and changes afoot in law-enforcement nationwide because of the new administration. Van Pelt finally had to leave to summarize the Miller case reports from her team and make the formal referral to the DA's office.

 **Lisbon and Jane, Private Investigators, Sacramento**

Lisbon breezed into their office, expecting to find Jane happily working through cold cases where she'd left him. She had a honey-crisp apple for him and a large latte to soothe herself after the emotional lunch with Van Pelt. She found him pacing in their office.

"Jane? Something wrong?"

"We have a case."


	12. Chapter 12 - New Tack

**Chapter 12: New Tack  
**

 **Lisbon and Jane, Office, Sacramento**

Lisbon found him pacing in their office suite. She set down the apple, latte and pharmacy bag and stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Jane? Something wrong?"

"We have a case."

Mystified by his agitation, "Good, what is it?"

He asked sharply, "What did Grace say?"

She blinked at the change of topic. "All set. Either Grace or Min will take me if you're away. Now what about a case?"

He frowned, "I'll call and turn it down."

"Why?"

"You're starting IVF." Luckily, based on the phase of Lisbon's monthly cycle, Robinson could start her on an IVF cycle shortly after their meeting.

She drew a deep breath. Calmly and deliberately, "Patrick. Starting IVF doesn't mean everything else stops."

"But–"

"–The first nine days involve an injection I can give myself and – where's the case?"

"Napa County."

"That's close enough for me to return for blood tests and ultrasounds. We'll have two weeks to solve the case." Most cases were either solved quickly. Or they could drag on forever.

He sat beside her and sipped his tea. Frowning in indecision, "Sure?" She nodded. He exhaled and relaxed. "I'll call and tell the sheriff we'll be there shortly."

"We're ready to go. I put clean clothes in our away bags yesterday." She lifted the pharmacy bag. "I got the Lupron and syringes. It has to stay at room temperature or lower so we should get a cooler and ice."

Brightening, "We can stay at a better hotel, one with a mini-fridge."

She gave him an exasperated look but agreed, "Okay, better hotel it is. Let's get moving." He nodded and fished out his cell. They were on their way a few minutes later.

It wasn't till they were leaving the city that Lisbon thought to ask for details, "What is the case anyhow? Who's hiring us?"

"Napa County Sheriff Gerald Hanson wants us." A frisson lanced through her at 'Napa County sheriff,' but of course that position was no longer held by Thomas McAllister. McAllister, aka Red John, was dead and gone three years ago. "Felicity, the four year old daughter of Collin and Lisbeth Wilkerson disappeared yesterday afternoon while playing in her yard. The search has turned up nothing so far. He fears a kidnapping or sexual attack."

"I'm surprised the sheriff's office is hiring us before even knowing it's a crime," Lisbon said dubiously. Still, the odds of finding a missing child alive fell with each hour and were grimly small after two days. Lisbon recalled an Amber Alert on the car radio but hadn't paid attention since it wasn't for Sacramento.

"Wilkerson's on Napa's board of supervisors and Hanson heard we solved the Englewood kidnapping. Recovering the girl, being on good terms, will help him get re-elected."

Lisbon nodded without comment. _Should've asked_ _first_ _._ Every endangered little girl was another chance for Jane to save a Charlotte stand-in. And another chance to fail. Were they still in law-enforcement she'd beg to have the case reassigned. _Damn._

 **FBI, Sacramento**

"...that covers activity by the regional task forces." Abbott paused, then looked up. Cho and his team straightened and paid closer attention during the video conference call. "Our European counterparts have heard hints of something new. Several Islamist terror groups are creating an alliance to carry out large, simultaneous attacks in several countries."

Cho asked, "Instead of autonomous, independent acts?"

Abbott adjusted his heavy black rimmed glasses. " _In addition to_ independent ad hoc attacks. As expected, ISIS leaders are scattering now that it's losing control of physical territory in the Middle East. They remain in contact and are linking up with other groups."

Vega muttered, "Terrific," under her breath.

Another task force SA asked, "Anything actionable here?"

"Not yet. This is a heads up to look for anything that might be related."

The weekly conference call ended shortly. Cho looked around the group. "Comments, questions?"

Hassan asked, "Should we refocus our efforts?"

Cho nodded. Going around the table, "Ojara, continue investigating the imams who are radicalizing inmate Muslims. Look for any changes in what they're preaching. Wylie, keep monitoring the white supremacist network. Spend the rest of your time on Islamic communications from suspected terrorists in our region. Hassan, Muhammed, work the big city radical mosques and Muslim communities. A group planning simultaneous international attacks will target big, well-known cities, large population groups. Vega, they have to get into the US somehow. See what the FBI offices in our region are picking up on visa overstays and especially what Border Patrol and local law enforcement are getting about Middle Easterners crossing our southern border."

Ojara weighed in, "How do we identify this new initiative, what's our edge?"

"ISIS is _reacting_ to recent losses. This alliance is new so they must be just starting to position their people. We're looking for people coming into the US, terrorists skilled in explosives and electronics. Other ideas?"

Wylie, "International coordination means international communication. I can look for that." Cho nodded.

Muhammad offered, "We shouldn't get fixated on explosives. Huge publicity would come from a plane crash, train derailment, any mass casualty situation. They did it with trucks in Europe."

"Point well taken."

The team dispersed to their varied tasks. Cho remained seated for a moment. He finished his coffee and pitched the cup into the trash. In its short life his task force had helped foil a half dozen ad hoc attacks in cooperation with local law enforcement. The white supremacist group looked to be up to far more than peaceful protest. With bulk purchases of clubs and shields and body armor, he thought the Justice Department could build a case for nationwide conspiracy to incite riots as they traveled from one demonstration to the next. That would put the groups at risk not only for criminal prosecutions, but also financial penalties and damages. He was well aware that the Klan in the South had been seriously weakened through financial penalties. _And Al Capone got put away for tax evasion_ , he thought wryly. He'd let the investigation run for a few more weeks to see if any larger, coordinated terrorist attack was in the works. He reflected on the grim reality: Counter-terrorism had to succeed 100 out of 100 times; terrorists, only once.

 **Van Pelt-Rigsby Home, Sacramento**

Van Pelt closed the foyer door and tossed purse, briefcase and keys onto the table. Walking through the house she noticed Min at the kitchen table bent over a book, so absorbed she didn't look when Van Pelt passed. She went upstairs and peeked into the baby's bedroom. She smiled at her strawberry blonde cherub but let her sleep. Dinnertime would be soon enough and much more pleasant without a cranky, over-tired toddler woken early from her nap. After changing into shorts and tee it was back down to the kitchen to start dinner. It would be just her and Taylor and maybe Min. _Wayne's stuck in San Diego on that case. It'll be good to have Ben back home in a couple of weeks too,_ she thought idly.

"Hi, Min."

Min jerked upright. "Grace."

Van Pelt frowned and looked closer. She sat down across from the teenager. "What's wrong?"

Min roughly shoved her book, laptop and papers into a pile and then into her backpack on the floor. She scrubbed tear tracks from her face while looking down. "Nothing."

"Hey." Van Pelt reached across and put her hand over Min's. "Whatever's wrong, let me help?"

"You can't." She zipped up the backpack.

Softly, "I can try if I know what the problem is."

Min sighed and slumped. After swallowing thickly a couple of times she said, "David – Dr. Singer, my math professor, left."

"And?"

She took a deep breath, "He was overseeing my PhD work. He took a position at MIT."

"Won't someone else be assigned to work with you?"

Min nodded, face bleak. "Yes. But I, I'll miss him. It won't be the same." She shook her head, grabbed her backpack and bolted. The door closed with a bang and she disappeared into the afternoon, long black hair streaming behind.

Van Pelt rose and started assembling ingredients for dinner. _Huh. Like I ever cared about any teacher that much._ She paused and frowned in thought. _I'll poke around and find out more about the Berkeley math department after dinner._

 **Napa Valley, California**

It was 3 p.m. when Lisbon pulled up and parked behind the orange tape roping off a staging area. A gaggle of tired, sweaty men and women was queued up at a catering truck. Chilled beverages and snacks had been donated by a local businessman for the search. A stack of fliers with a photo, description, and phone number was on a table under a rock paperweight. They had noticed the fliers tacked to trees as they drove through the neighborhood. A large map was spread out on a board nailed to a tree. Areas were sectioned off on the map with highlighter. Most sections were marked with X's. A dozen local residents and a few reporters with camera crews milled aimlessly behind the tape, hoping for a morsel of news. Until something broke, every 30 minutes the reporters breathlessly repeated the meager facts surrounding the girl's disappearance. The tense mystery of a missing, conveniently photogenic little white girl guaranteed ratings. Her father's status as a rising star in California politics didn't hurt.

Lisbon and Jane approached the gap in the tape and showed their ID's. A group jostled past them, on their way to a new area to search.

Quietly, "Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane. We're here at Sheriff Hanson's request."

The deputy scrutinized their PI licenses, then pointed to a late-30's man in a sheriff's uniform.

Hanson broke off his conversation as they approached.

"Sheriff Hanson, I'm–"

"–Ms. Lisbon, Mr. Jane. Glad you could come so quickly." He shook their hands and motioned them to an area out of earshot from the searchers and reporters.

Lisbon, "How can we be of service, Sheriff?"

"Felicity Wilkerson was at home with her mother, Lisbeth yesterday morning." He nodded toward the large home behind them. "Her mother dozed off. When she woke the girl wasn't inside and she thought Felicity went out to play." He hastened to add, "–The yard's fenced. She wasn't there either. Lisbeth called her husband, Collin, who came home and called 9-1-1 at 3:39 p.m. We organized a search and have been systematically combing the woods since. There's no sign of the girl and no promising leads either."

Jane slowly turned, surveying the area. "The surrounding forest is a state park, right?" Hanson nodded. "Have you tried dogs?"

"We did but that was a bust. It's the girl's home and her scent is all over the place."

"Did she ever play in the forest?"

"Yeah. We've about finished the sections nearest this house. The farther away from the house, the amount of ground to cover becomes enormous."

Lisbon pinned Hanson with her gaze. Neutrally, "What other possibilities are you considering?"

"My deputies canvassed the neighborhood. No one noticed anything. It's a residential area so there are no cameras till you get into town. We're interviewing registered sex offenders within a ten-mile radius. We want you," he glanced at Jane, "to talk to any of them without a solid alibi. Maybe you can spot something."

"And?" Lisbon tilted her head, a slight frown on her face.

"Ms. Lisbon, I'm well aware that people closest to a missing child are the likeliest suspects. I think that's a dead end this time. Collin Wilkerson was at his Napa office when Felicity went missing. Her mother is so distraught her doctor had to sedate her. Their son was with friends until just before his father arrived. No friends or distant family members have been by recently."

Jane asked, "Household help?"

"Their housekeeper has been downstate visiting family for the past two weeks."

Lisbon took lead, "We'd like to speak to the family." Shooting a glance at Jane, "We'll take care to be tactful. When do you want us to question the sex offenders?"

"Most are voluntarily coming in to our headquarters at 5 p.m. A deputy will escort you to the handful who aren't cooperating."

"We'll have access to their records before we talk to them?"

"Of course."

Lisbon looked around only to find Jane had vanished. _He'll appear when he's ready._ A deputy escorted her to the Wilkerson home. Collin Wilkerson opened the door and ushered her in after she identified herself and the deputy vouched for her. He woodenly led the PI to the living room and sat beside his wife. Lisbon sat opposite them.

The house was pleasantly cluttered and slightly messy, testifying to the housekeeper's absence for a couple of weeks. The husband was in his early 40's, tall, dark, athletic, strong. The wife was an ethereal beauty in her early 30's: Fair, slender, and hauntingly beautiful.

"I'm Teresa Lisbon, a private investigator. Sheriff Hanson asked me and my partner Patrick Jane to help find your daughter."

Collin's black eyes bore through her, filled with worry and pain. "I don't understand. Gerry's got a couple dozen deputies and hordes of volunteers searching."

Delicately, "Sheriff Hanson is being thorough in exploring every possibility. I'd like you to tell me what happened yesterday. The smallest detail could be important. Mrs. Wilkerson?"

The woman looked up, eyes dazed and flat. She licked her lips. "I told the sheriff. I–" She took a breath and rallied. "Felicity and I spent the morning at home."

"Just you two?"

She nodded. "Our son Derrick went to his friend's house to work on some computer project that morning. By noon I was fading – I didn't sleep well the night before," she explained apologetically. "I took a nap with Felicity beside me. When I woke up Felicity was gone."

"When did you wake"

The wife looked at her husband, alarmed. "I'm not exactly sure. Afternoon sometime. Felicity wasn't in the house. I checked the yard and she wasn't there either."

"Neighbors?"

"There aren't any kids on this block. That's when I called Collin."

The front door opened and closed quietly. The three looked toward the hall and Jane appeared a moment later.

"Patrick Jane," he smiled and extended his hand to each Wilkerson, holding Lisbeth's a fraction of a second long. "Don't mind me, please continue." He and Lisbon exchanged a quick glance. Jane nodded minutely to her.

The Wilkerson's turned back to Lisbon. Jane unobtrusively browsed the room, peering closely at photographs, picking up the occasional memento and then carefully returning it to the exact same position.

"Mrs. Wilkerson, you don't remember the time, but was it long before you called your husband?"

"No. It, um, it couldn't have been more than a few minutes."

Curious about the phrasing, Lisbon pressed gently, "Do you _remember_ that it was only a short time?"

The woman wrung her hands in sudden agitation, her eyes alert for the first time, "I don't know! I'm so upset I just don't know." Collin Wilkerson tensed and looked like he was about to interrupt. Unnoticed, Jane's gaze was intently fastened on the woman.

"That's fine, ma'am. Sorry to upset you. Mr. Wilkerson, can you tell me what happened from your perspective?"

He exhaled noisily, abandoning the objection he had been about to make. "Lisbeth called at 3:15. I noticed the time because I had a 3:30 meeting. When she told me Felicity was missing, I had my assistant cancel my appointments – I'm an attorney – and came straight home. I got here at about 3:25. Derrick, my son was here and we both looked for her. I called our immediate neighbors. Nothing. Then I called 9-1-1. –I'm so worried. Felicity likes to play in the forest even though she's not supposed to." He ran his hand over his face and lifted his coffee cup with a shaking hand.

Jane used the pause to ask, "May I use your restroom? It was a long drive."

Distracted, Wilkerson said, "Down the hall past the stairwell."

Lisbon asked another question, recapturing his attention. "I'd like to see any particular areas she favored outside your yard when we're done here." He nodded. "Um, has she ever gotten lost before this?"

"Not really. She plays by the creek even though we tell her not to."

"Can she swim?"

"Yes, we had her take swimming lessons as soon as we could because of the creek. Usually she and Derrick go to the public pool in town."

"Are there any other areas she likes in the forest?"

Lisbon and Wilkerson's voices dropped to a murmur as Jane silently walked down the hall. He passed the stairwell then stopped in surprise at the teenaged boy hunched over a textbook in what appeared to be a hobby room. He looked about 15, though his strong build and height might make him look older than his years. His hair was dark and features resembled those of Collin Wilkerson.

Jane leaned on the doorframe to the room. "Hello?"

The boy looked up. His face was drawn, his eyes rimmed with red. "Who are you?"

"Patrick Jane. My partner and I are here to help find your sister." Jane glanced around at the electronics workbench, computers, and other unidentified gear. It was orderly. A myriad of parts were in labeled bins.

"Oh." Grudgingly, "I'm Derrick."

Puzzled to see the textbook during the summer, "School work?"

"Yeah. STEM enrichment program." At Jane's baffled look, he clarified, "Science, Technology, Engineering, Mathematics."

"Do you have any ideas about where your sister might be?"

The boy's look was pure despair. He said, "No. I don't wanna talk about it," and buried his face in his hands.

"Sorry. I'll leave you to your work."

Jane quickly scanned the family room, which housed books, toys, video games, a TV, and casual furniture. It was an uneasy mix of things appealing to a young girl and to an older boy. Dust and an overflowing trash can spoke eloquently of the vacationing housekeeper. The next room was obviously Derrick's bedroom. The blue walls were covered in posters of sports teams, quirky Escher prints, and Hubble photos. For a teen, the room was surprisingly neat. The desk was clear except for a holder for pens, paperclips, tape and stapler. The bed was made. He stopped at the bathroom and found nothing remarkable. After a quick look around he flushed the toilet and ran water to lend credibility to his story. He quietly made his way back past the hobby room. He paused at the stairwell. Certain no one had noticed him he lightly ran up the stairs.

Upstairs Jane glanced into the first room and found it devoted to scrapbooking. A worktable had a scrapbook and decorative materials scattered over it. Supplies for other crafts were stored in several bookcases.

He next checked out what was obviously the master suite. The suite's anteroom was a study with glossy, dark wood furniture. It was clear the husband mainly used the room from the law books and clutter of legal papers and files on the desk. The desk drawers contained office supplies and household records. The bedroom was pleasantly rumpled, decorated in pale rose and white. Night stands, dresser and closets yielded nothing surprising. The master bath was also in slight disarray. Towels in the hamper under a few clothes were quite wet. He blinked in surprise to find Ativan and Haldol prescription medicine for Lisbeth Wilkerson in the medicine cabinet.

Bright pink wooden letters declared the room adjacent to the master suite to be Felicity's. It was messy with toys scattered around and clothes that hadn't quite made it to the hamper. The bedspread was mussed though the pillow was freshly fluffed. He lightly ran his fingers over the pillow then flipped it over to find the other side damp. He put it back exactly as it had been. Jane riffled through the drawers and closet without finding anything noteworthy. The last thing he noticed before moving on was a bright yellow rubber ducky set atop a tall bookcase.

Last was the upstairs bathroom. He nudged the door open. Toiletries were neatly stored in the closet and shower caddy. Hand, bath and face towels were fluffy and unused. Counter, toilet and tub looked freshly scrubbed. He pursed his lips then hurried silently downstairs before his absence would be noticed.

Jane sidled quietly into the living room and leaned against the wall next to the door as though he'd been listening for awhile. Lisbon blinked and he knew she was grateful he'd returned because she was nearing the end of her questions.

"If you can think of anyone who might have a grudge against you or your family, please let Sheriff Hanson know."

Wilkerson frowned. "You're assuming she isn't lost in the forest."

"Not at all, sir. The sheriff's office just has to be thorough."

Jane cleared his throat to attract attention. "Mr. Wilkerson, this is a second marriage for you both, yes?"

"I don't see how that's relevant, but yes."

"Just wondering."

Lisbon rose and put her notepad and pen into her bag. "I think that's about it." Mrs. Wilkerson remained seated though her husband stood.

"If you don't mind, I'll just get a sip of water." Jane slipped out and went to the kitchen before anyone had a chance to react. He took a quick look around, quietly opened the refrigerator, and then got a glass – after conveniently checking several cabinets – and filled it with water. A partly empty bottle of vitamins was on the counter. The label said they were prenatal vitamins. He set the glass in the sink and joined Lisbon as she finished her conversation with Collin Wilkerson. Jane noticed Derrick standing partway out of the hobby room, watching as he passed. Wilkerson stepped outside with them and pointed to the forest areas where Felicity played. They shook hands and Mr. Wilkerson disappeared back inside.

They stood in the glare of a bright sun low in the sky.

Lisbon said, "We need to look over the yard and forest where the girl played." She glanced at him sideways. "We'll brief each other on the way to the sheriff's office, okay?"

They took a spiral path around the house as the most efficient way to thoroughly cover the area. There was nothing remarkable in the playset or basketball court. A close look at the gardening and hand tools in the garage and shed revealed nothing suspicious. They finished with the yard and made their way into the forest in the direction indicated by Wilkerson. They soon came to a pretty glade by the creek. Jane suddenly bent over. He plucked a pink plastic teacup from the long grass and sighed. Lisbon motioned him to join her by the creek.

"Look." Diminutive footprints were cast in the dried mud. "Wonder when it last rained?" she said aloud.

The creek followed a narrow groove in the rock. Jane murmured, "It looks harmless now, but I bet the current is swift when it rains heavily."

"We can't tell anything right now. I'll ask Hanson what they've done to rule out drowning in the creek."

Jane frowned. "The water's deep and fast enough to carry a little girl downstream. They must have looked."

Lisbon glanced at her watch. "C'mon. We need to get to the sheriff's office for those interrogations." She strode quickly back toward the house. After a moment, Jane followed.

"Fine. But first I want to check out their cars." His long strides carried him to a minivan and a BMW sedan parked in the driveway.

"Jane!" Lisbon hurried after him. "No warrant, no permission. Can't it wait?" She glanced around, but no one in the staging area seemed to be paying them any attention.

"No." He motioned toward the house with his chin. "They can't see us from the house. They won't know. Tomorrow may be too late to find what I think might be there."

She grumbled under her breath, but joined him in checking the vehicles. The BMW was unlocked – a small bit of good fortune – but produced exactly nothing. Unsurprisingly, the man's sunglasses inside suggested it was usually used by the husband. They turned to the minivan. It was locked but quickly yielded to Jane's trusty lock picks.

"What are we looking for, anyhow?"

"Anything out of place."

Lisbon checked the glove box, seats, and floor mats without finding anything noteworthy other than a headless Barbie, purple barrettes, and a rodent's nirvana of snack crumbs. Jane popped the rear hatch.

"Lisbon," he called quietly. When she came over he took her hand and put it on a patch of carpeting in the cargo area.

"It's damp. So what?"

"I'm not certain yet. I just wanted someone else to be able to confirm it."

"What else?"

"Let's take another look at the front driver's side." He opened the driver's door and scrutinized the floor mat. He made room for Lisbon to look. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to something on the mat.

"I think they're pine needles."

"I think so too." He sighed. "Let's go. I'm done."

She followed him, grumbling, "You _are_ going to explain once we're on the road."

A minute later they were back at the staging area. X's marked more sections of the map. The deputy currently overseeing the search had no news. Jane grabbed an apple and a sweet roll from the catering truck before sliding into the SUV. Several hours of interrogations lay between them and any chance for a meal.

It was 8 p.m. by the time they finished with the 23rd person. There were several more to talk to the next day. To his credit, Hanson was keeping late hours as his law enforcement organization strove to solve the mystery, to save a little girl. Lisbon and Jane stopped by before they left.

"Ms. Lisbon, Mr. Jane." He motioned them to take chairs in his office.

"Your sergeant likely already told you. We are certain none of the men–"

"–and one woman," Jane inserted quietly.

"–abducted or harmed Felicity Wilkerson."

Hanson pursed his lips in frustration. "Sergeant Vargas told me. There are still another six tomorrow."

"We'll be here at 8 a.m. tomorrow if that's okay?"

He nodded. "The sergeant will have a deputy take you around." He looked down and shifted gears. "Did you get anything from talking to the family?"

Lisbon and Jane exchanged glances then she carefully answered, "We have some ideas, but not enough to lay it out yet. We do strongly recommend you have your search teams double check the creek."

Hanson frowned. "They checked first thing after the girl was reported missing. We trawled that stream – you can see where the little girl played. I am certain we didn't miss her." After a moment, "Besides, if she did drown there and we didn't find her, her body would be way downstream by now."

Jane slumped tiredly, "That assumes her body entered the creek at the glade she played in. What if her body entered the creek far upstream?"

Hanson's frown deepened into a scowl. "There's a ridge that makes the stream inaccessible for a quarter mile. There's no sign she ever went that way, so you're implying she was murdered and her body was thrown into the creek upstream." A muscle jumped in his jaw at the possibility it could be murder.

Wearily, "Maybe."

Lisbon intervened before their differing opinions escalated, "Sheriff, it is a _possibility_. We certainly need to rule out the remaining registered sex offenders. And I understand your search will continue tomorrow. We do think it's worth checking that creek again."

Hanson visibly relaxed and let it go. "We'll do that. Ms. Lisbon, Mr. Jane. I will see you tomorrow."

Lisbon and Jane ended up at a nice hotel that blessedly had a decent in-house restaurant. Dinner was subdued as a result of fatigue and the grim likelihood of a murdered little girl. After dinner they made their way to their room. They set their bags and the cooler down. She kicked off her dress boots. He toed his shoes off and flopped down on the bed fully clothed.

"Okay if I shower first?"

"Sure."

"I've also gotta do the Lupron shot," she added as she put her night clothes and toiletries in the bathroom. She took a vial of Lupron and a syringe, put the rest into the mini-fridge, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Lisbon reappeared 25 minutes later and sat next to him on the edge of the bed. His eyes were closed but she could tell he wasn't asleep.

She ran her fingers through his hair, stroking his head. "Are you all right? You seem sad."

"Why wouldn't I be? A little girl was very likely murdered."

"If your theory is correct, she was dead before she was even reported missing. There is nothing we could do."

He caught her hand and squeezed gently. "That doesn't make it feel any better. I–" He broke off, sighed, and rolled to his feet. He shook his head, words of little use to make anything better, or even just to feel better. "I'll take my shower. You don't need to wait up."

She settled herself under the covers. He clicked the lights off on his way to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he slid into bed alongside her. She didn't have to wait up but he was grateful she had. She propped herself up and kissed him lovingly and thoroughly. Then she nestled against his chest and laced her free hand with his.

"You're a good man with a tender heart. You don't have to own all the sadness, Patrick. Sometimes delivering justice for the victim is all anyone can do."

No words could make it all right but having Lisbon with him made it better. He kissed her silky head and surrendered to the oblivion and peace of sleep.


	13. Chapter 13 - Not Delivering Justice

**Chapter 13: Not Delivering Justice**

 **FBI, Sacramento, Morning**

"Special Agent Cho," Cho answered. He put his phone on speaker to talk while working.

"Abbott. I want you to sit in on several terrorist interrogations."

Cho laid down his pen. "Why?"

"Two men flew into Dulles under falsified passports. The Europeans ID'd these guys as organizers for the new terrorist alliance. An unknown major California city is among their targets. You're up to speed on terrorist threats for your region, right?"

"Yes. We should pull in agents from the major California cities too."

"Already done. They'll watch by video conference."

"When and where?"

"Tomorrow, Washington FBI, noon. I want Jane here too." Cho grunted an acknowledgment. "Problem?"

"No, sir. Not his area of expertise, but he has a way of being useful."

Abbott rumbled calmly, "CT will become his area of expertise if I have anything to say about it. –My admin will email the details."

"Will do."

 **Napa Valley, Morning**

Jane's cell chimed just as he slid into their SUV. Looking at the cell ID, "Abbott," he said to Lisbon then answered the call. "Jane. What's the occasion, G-man? ... Not my specialty. ... No, I prefer to keep it that way. ... " He sighed. "If you insist. ... Tomorrow, 12 o'clock, FBI D.C. headquarters." He ended the call.

"What's he want?" she asked as she drove toward the sheriff's office.

"My presence to read terrorist suspects."

Troubled, "Which you don't want to do."

"Irrelevant. I owe him six cases a year."

She glanced his way. "It must be important for Abbott to have you fly in." She thought of the eight-plus hour travel time and added glumly, "We'll have to fly out tonight to be there by noon."

"Mm. Apparently there's information of a major attack being planned by radical Islamists." He turned toward her. "There's not much more to do in Napa. Even if Hanson isn't done with us, I could go alone," adding before Lisbon could object, "Abbott has Cho coming too."

Sensibly, "Let's see how it goes today. We'll decide later."

They parked and made their way to Hanson's office. They were early and hoped to meet with Hanson before traveling around to talk with the remaining sex offenders. Fortunately he was available. Lisbon took a seat. Jane closed the door and took the adjacent chair. Hanson waited patiently for them to start.

"Sheriff, thank you for giving us a few minutes. Jane and I believe we know what happened to Felicity Wilkerson. We're confident we're on the right track, although forensic evidence and interrogations will be needed to prove our theory."

He nodded. "Go ahead."

Jane spoke emotionlessly. "Lisbeth Wilkerson drowned her daughter in the bathtub." Hanson frowned and straightened. "Mrs. Wilkerson has schizophrenia which is not well-controlled. Because of her illness, she drowned her daughter after her husband and stepson left the house Monday morning. She dried and dressed the body and laid it on the girl's bed. Felicity's wet hair soaked the pillow. The mother then fell asleep. Her stepson discovered the body when he came home. He covered up the crime. He used the family minivan to move the body. There are pine needles on the driver's floor mat and a damp patch on the cargo area carpeting. He put her body in the stream, likely on the other side of the ridge. He would have weighted it with rocks to keep it submerged. More will be known when the body is recovered. Derrick cleaned the bathroom to hide evidence of the girl's struggle. He put the soaked towels in the master bath hamper. Those towels are pink, matching the girl's bathroom but not the master bath. Mrs. Wilkerson woke, looked in vain for Felicity, and called her husband. A side effect of her Ativan prescription or the generic lorazepam is that it prevents memory formation. She doesn't remember anything about this."

Hanson tapped a pen on the desk as he mulled Jane's narrative. "What's your proof? It, it seems fantastic. What in the world would be the motive – for either of them?"

Lisbon answered. "Mrs. Wilkerson takes medication for schizophrenia, a condition marked by hallucinations and paranoia. It's extremely dangerous if uncontrolled. Lorazepam sometimes accentuates those symptoms. There may not be a motive that makes sense." She rubbed her forehead and continued. "Mrs. Wilkerson may have thought she was somehow saving her daughter, or might not have recognized her at all."

Jane added, "Mrs. Wilkerson's scrap-booking materials suggest she is strongly religious and fascinated with angels. I would ask if she is concerned about evil in this world, if she thinks innocent children pass on to a better hereafter."

"So you don't know."

Tightly, "Not without questioning her and her family."

Curtly, "Continue."

"The housekeeper has been away. The house is unkempt except for the girl's bathroom which was freshly scrubbed. Her rubber bath toy is out of place, on her bedroom bookcase far above her reach. The son's bedroom and hobby room are markedly tidy. It's plausible he would meticulously clean the bathroom to cover up the mur–"

"–What's _his_ motive?"

"Protecting his family and most of all his father. They're very close judging from family photos. This is the second marriage for both parents. Neighbors and photos suggest Derrick is not close to Felicity or his stepmother." Lisbon blinked, realizing what Jane had been doing before joining her at the Wilkerson's. "A murder would tear apart his family, his world, for the second time since his mother died in the military. We believe Collin Wilkerson is innocent. He doesn't know what happened."

Hanson threw down the pen. "You don't have a shred of hard evidence. Wet towels, a clean bathroom, damp spots, and pine needles next to a pine forest? I'm not sure she was murdered, much less have the evidence for an arrest." He roughly shoved his chair back and motioned a deputy into his office. "Crawford, take Ms. Lisbon and Mr. Jane to talk with the remaining registered sex offenders."

Lisbon followed the deputy out. Before following Jane paused and said, "When the girl's body is discovered, the autopsy should verify that she drowned in bath water. There will be no sign of sexual assault. Derrick's fingerprints in the bathroom and on the rubber toy may provide circumstantial evidence. Questioning the son will give you the rest." He pivoted and hurried to catch up with the deputy and Lisbon.

 **Napa Valley**

It was late-afternoon when Crawford, Lisbon and Jane returned to the Napa County Sheriff's Office headquarters. The last person interviewed required two stops before they located him at a mountain cabin an hour away. The sadness was palpable. A few deputies who had seen them near the Wilkerson home nodded in recognition.

"Ma'am, sir, wait here, please." Crawford went to Hanson's office, leaving them standing in the bullpen.

Jane exchanged glances with Lisbon and said, "I'll get us drinks," and left for the nearby break room. He returned with a styrofoam cup of coffee. At Lisbon's raised eyebrow he explained, "Coffee, no tea," and handed her the cup.

Crawford returned. "This way," and led them to a small conference room. They seated themselves. Hanson soon entered and took a chair opposite them.

Jane spoke first. "You found the body." It wasn't a question.

Hanson nodded. "My men found her this morning, downstream a thousand feet from where she played. The body was snagged by a fallen tree. For that I thank you."

"But?" Jane prodded.

Hanson wiped his hand over his mouth and jaw. "We put a rush on the autopsy. The pathologist obliged and I just got the report." They waited silently. "He confirmed she was drowned. The body was battered from rocks and debris, but it didn't look like abuse. There was no sign of sexual assault."

Lisbon asked, "What about water in the lungs?"

Hanson shook his head minutely, unconsciously. "The report says nothing about bath water in her lungs. Everything's consistent with accidental drowning in the stream."

Lisbon wondered about the exact wording. _Was_ water found in her lungs? Was it stream water, only stream water? Was it even tested? Hanson was infuriatingly vague. _Hanson's wording, or the pathologist's?_

Jane glanced at the closed door. "You're avoiding any public suggestion to the contrary."

Angry now, "I have no hard evidence of anything else. I'm closing the case with a finding of accidental drowning."

"Without further questioning the family members?"

Expression hard, "The family's suffering. I'm not going to rip them apart on unsupported speculations." Hanson rose. "The body was recovered thanks to your suggestion. Submit your invoice." He turned and left.

Lisbon sat, eyebrows drawn together, hands clenched in her lap. Jane propped his elbows on the table and rubbed his face with both hands. "Is there anything we can do?"

"As PI's we have no standing to question an official decision, especially one consistent with the autopsy." She grimaced and pulled out her cell and placed a call. Jane tipped his head and looked at her curiously. "Pat? Teresa. ... We're fine. You? ... Yes, that 'we.' ... Thanks. ... I have a favor to ask. Can you get hold of an autopsy report from the Napa County coroner's office? ... Felicity Wilkerson, today. We consulted on the case and I'm curious. Appreciate it if you don't mention my name. ... I'll look forward to it. ... Yeah, I'd like that. Anytime you're free. ... Bye."

With a slight smile, "Why do you want the autopsy report?"

She scowled with the effort to put gut feel into words. "There was something off in Hanson's expression when he mentioned the pathologist."

Jane absently sought his tea then remembered he had none. "You're good, Lisbon. Hanson shook his head when he reported the findings. There was a micro-expression of disgust. He neither likes nor respects that pathologist."

She put her hand on his arm. "Don't get your hopes up. We don't have grounds to challenge this."

Jane sighed and rose. "Let's get going. I'll drive." Mired in disappointment she didn't even argue.

He drove for fifteen minutes before she recognized his destination. "What are we doing here?"

"What I have to do." He stopped in front of the house, parked, and moved to get out.

She grabbed his arm, "Jane, tell me."

He paused. Quietly, "The case is closed. I'm going to talk to the man as a husband and a father."

She relaxed her grip in confusion. He slid out and shut the driver's door. She scrambled to catch up and was by his side when he rang the doorbell.

He murmured, "This will go easier if it's just me."

Still concerned, "I'll hang back. No lawsuits. Don't end up in the ER." His sad half-smile vanished as the door opened.

"Yes?" Wilkerson's eyes narrowed with recognition.

"Mr. Wilkerson, I'd appreciate a few minutes of your time."

"I just got done arranging the cremation of my," his voice broke, "daughter. Excuse me if I don't feel like talking."

Jane's foot unobtrusively blocked the door from closing. "This is important. I know what it is to lose a daughter." He swallowed, "And wife."

After a long moment, Wilkerson swung wide the door and turned away, too despondent and exhausted to resist. "Sure." He went to the living room and dropped heavily onto the couch. Both entered. Lisbon stood unobtrusively against a wall. Jane drew the pocket doors closed, then seated himself opposite Wilkerson.

"Mr. Wilkerson, this is personal. Unofficial. You need to hear it to protect your son." Jane paused and seemed to harden with resolve. "You already know the truth deep down. Your wife drowned your daughter in the bathtub because of her poorly controlled schizophrenia." Wilkerson gulped a deep breath and violently shook his head. He couldn't get a word past the lump in his throat. "She doesn't remember because of the lorazepam – Ativan. Derrick came home, found the body and covered up the murder _to protect his family._ " Slowly, emphatically, "Derrick had nothing to do with the murder. And your wife truly does not know what she did ... was not in her right mind."

Wilkerson's face crumpled with pain. He slumped, seeming to collapse in on himself.

Jane put his hand on the man's arm. "You can't change what happened. You _can_ prevent further harm. Get your son counseling. Be sure your wife gets effective treatment, for her benefit and the safety of others. Anger and guilt will only make everything worse." Jane rose and said before turning away, " Try to forgive yourself." Wilkerson sat frozen in horror and grief. They let themselves out.

Jane let Lisbon drive without protest. Neither said a word for the first twenty minutes. Looking straight ahead Lisbon ventured, "Will that help? Is there any chance for that family?"

Jane stared unseeingly out the side window. "It might help the boy. Her fate depends on effective treatment. I don't know if he can forgive her," he swallowed roughly, "if he even _should_ forgive her."

She blinked at the harsh judgment, but her cell chimed before she could ask. She twisted to fish it from her back pocket. "Lisbon. ... Can I put you on speaker? Jane's with me." She pressed 'Speaker' and set it in a cup holder. "Still there, Pat?"

"Yes. I got that report. Okay if I e-mail it to you?"

"Perfect."

Sounding unhappy, "I looked it over. I know that pathologist."

"And?"

"Off the record? It looks shoddy, like he cut corners."

"How?"

"It doesn't have the detail I'd expect. And it's too ... pat. Like he tailored the report to support someone's conclusion."

Eyebrows raised, "That might be what happened."

She cleared her throat. "I'd have to come up with an excuse to get involved, but as CIB head pathologist I might be able to finagle a second autopsy."

Jane exhaled with puffed cheeks. "Too late. The body is already cremated. We appreciate the information though."

The pathologist tsked and said in irritation, "I've had run-ins with Dr. Scanlon. He brags about the extra income, but he's a mediocre forensic pathologist. I – did the perp walk?"

Carefully, "The sheriff closed the case based on the autopsy. If it went to trial, the verdict would likely be not guilty by reason of insanity."

Frown apparent in her voice, "All the more reason he should have been charged."

" _She_. We think she'll get treatment. She probably won't pose any further danger." Lisbon unconsciously shrugged, "Sometimes the system can't deliver justice. This may be one of those times."

The pathologist sighed. "It rubs me the wrong way but I trust your judgment. Look, I've gotta go. I'm holding you to that dinner, though."

"–I'll call. Thank you, Pat."

Jane added, "–Bye."

"Bye."

 **Van Pelt-Rigsby Home, Sacramento**

Van Pelt had the house to herself with just Taylor for company. Min had gone to visit her Aunt Cho in Oakland. Wayne and his team were still on a case in San Diego. She finished cleaning up the kitchen and Taylor after dinner then spent time playing with her daughter. Bath time left Taylor clean, her mom wet, and the bathroom a mess. After reading and cuddling, Taylor was asleep by 8 p.m. The rest of the evening was hers. Van Pelt straightened the main bathroom then took a shower. She mulled how to spend the evening while drying her hair. For once she was caught up with CIB work. Despite long work hours, away cases, a toddler, and a seven-year old when Ben was with them, life was far less chaotic and stressful since Min became their work-week nanny.

She snapped her fingers remembering her decision to get more information about the Berkeley math program. Breaking down into tears was _so_ uncharacteristic for the prickly, tough, brilliant teenager. Thirty minutes later Van Pelt knew that 21-year old Dr. David Singer was a math prodigy in his own right, handsome, and now a tenured professor at MIT.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Early Evening**

Lisbon wiped the sweat from her face and slowed to a walk for the last half mile of her five-mile run. When they got home she'd gone for a run to work off the frustration of the case. Jane said he needed to pack, the first thing he'd said since their conversation with Pat.

She trudged the last several hundred feet, tired but stress free. _Shoulda found out about the case before accepting it. Damn, threatened children are always hard on him._ She sighed. _At least we didn't have to see the corpse. I hope Wilkerson does what Jane said._ She silently said a prayer for the family, then frowned as she recalled Jane's harsh judgment. _I don't 'get' where he's coming from._ Non compos mentis. _Jane knows she didn't know what she was doing. Still, it's horrible that a parent killed her child. ... Oh. Oh, God._

Lisbon hurried the last hundred feet and slipped in the door. She blinked, the interior was quite dark even after the gloom of the outdoor twilight. She flicked on the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen. No sign of her husband. She spied a bottle left carelessly uncapped on the counter resting in a small puddle of liquid. _Scotch?_ The bottle that had been new, was now several ounces down. After a quick look through the house she found him outside. He leaned against the railing, looking out over their pool and yard, nearly invisible in the gathering gloom.

Jane minutely turned his head when his wife joined him. He sipped his drink.

"Hey." She leaned against the fence next to him and looked out into the darkness.

"Hey."

After a minute, "You were going to pack. What's going on with you?" The movement of her head revealed her glance toward his drink.

He shook his head slightly. Neutrally, "Bad case."

She took a breath and tried. "You know she was dead before we got there."

"Mm." Another sip.

Quietly, "Horrible, but the mother _is_ mentally ill."

"Doesn't get much worse than a parent who kills hi– _her_ child."

"Patrick, don't go there. _Please_." She sighed and added, "She'll get treatment. She won't hurt anyone else."

Bleakly, "Sure about that?" He gulped a mouthful, then waited for the burn to ease. Abruptly he turned toward her. "She's pregnant."

"What?"

"Prenatal vitamins. The pregnancy is why she went off her prescriptions." Bitterly, "They're dangerous to a developing baby after all."

"Oh, God." The darkness swam as she resolutely blinked away gathering tears. "Does her husband know?"

He nodded. "He'd have to. The vitamins were in plain sight."

She slipped an arm around his waist and hugged. "He's a responsible man. After this ... he'll protect his family." Faintly, "He has to."

Jane drained the rest of his drink and sighed tiredly. "I hope so." He draped his arm around her shoulders and they went inside. "We have to make that flight."

Jane showered first then started packing his away bag with fresh clothes for a multi-day trip while Lisbon showered.

She stepped into their bedroom, blotting her hair with a towel. "Patrick, Cho's also going, right?"

"Yes. So?"

She stood in front of him. "Would it be okay if I don't come? There are some things I'd like to take care of."

He regarded her seriously and nodded. "You don't need to waste your time watching me read suspects." He managed a half-hearted grin. "Cho will be there. He knows he'd have to answer to you if anything happens to me."

She mock glowered. "Damn straight." She took a deep breath, "Then I'd prefer to stay here."

He returned to tucking incidentals into his bag. "I can't imagine it will be a long trip. Anyhow there are a couple of weeks before the next step in the infertility treatments."

She tugged his sleeve and he turned and leaned into her kiss. Drawing back afterward, "Thanks. Just stick with Cho and stay out of trouble."

"Yes, dear."

She lightly flicked his arm and left to make a sandwich for him to eat on the way to the airport.


	14. Chapter 14 - The Reading Room

**Chapter 14: The Reading Room**

 **Sacramento International Airport, Tuesday Evening**

Lisbon leaned over to give her husband a quick peck goodbye after the quiet drive to the airport. Jane insisted on holding her for a tender kiss.

Pulling back slightly, "Sorry I was so distracted – indulging myself," a whisper of alcohol still on his breath. "I'll make it up to you when I get back." His hand caressed her cheek as he straightened and drew away.

She blinked. "It was a hard case. You have nothing to make up, Patrick."

He flashed a quick grin then was outside, pulling his carry-on from the back seat. The door thumped closed and he waved and headed toward the terminal. A horn blared, jerking Lisbon's attention back to driving. She pulled away while frowning at the impatient driver.

A familiar figure fell in step alongside as Jane approached the door. The paucity of mid-week flights to D.C. made it unsurprising they were on the same flight.

"Cho," he greeted.

"Hey."

Now inside, Jane volunteered, "Lisbon isn't coming. You can have her first class seat–"

"–You look like crap," Cho opined after a glance in the better light.

"–or not," he finished not missing a beat.

They got boarding passes from their airline's kiosk. Crowds were light. Cho's badge and Jane's FBI ID let them skip the security screening hassles. Soon they were at the gate for their flight, automatically sitting away from other passengers, with a clear view of the room before them.

Cho gave him a critical once-over. After working together for years Jane's weary discouragement was easy to see, but his carefully neutral expression didn't invite inquiry. Cho limited himself to asking, "Lisbon all right?"

"Yes." Jane closed his eyes and leaned back, ending it.

First class boarded after special needs passengers and parents with children. Jane motioned Cho to come along. His stoic friend was as careful with his FBI budget as with personal finances. Cho wouldn't spring for first class despite his bad back and the five hour first leg of the trip. Jane got the counter attendant to reassign Lisbon's seat to Cho. They stowed their bags overhead and settled into their seats. Jane closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

The plane landed at the Charlotte hub five hours later. Passengers stirred, blinking sleepily at the early morning sun. Jane woke. Aspirin and a cup of ice-water awaited on his tray as they taxied to the gate.

"Thanks." Jane took the pills with a sip of water.

Jane looked distinctly better after some sleep and time for the alcohol to be metabolized. He perked up when Cho said, "We have an hour-and-a-half layover."

"Eggs!"

 **Washington D.C., Wednesday Mid-day**

The two-hour second flight landed them at Washington National. Expecting there'd be no chance for lunch, Cho and Jane bought sandwiches and ate them during the taxi ride. The short trip into D.C. took a quarter as long as flying four-hundred miles from Charlotte thanks to heavy traffic and Potomac River bridge bottlenecks.

Jane peered curiously as they passed national monuments and iconic buildings.

"First visit?"

Absently, "I performed in Washington but never had time for sightseeing."

 _Never got to it with your family._ "Visited D.C. when I trained at Quantico. We can look around if there's time."

Jane glanced over. "Thanks."

They stopped at their hotel, left their carry-ons to be delivered to their rooms, then walked the few blocks to the FBI. Cho quickly passed through security. Jane took longer.

When Jane was finally waved through Cho noted slyly, "Sometimes it pays to look like a cop," payback for Jane's constant teasing about his friends' 'coppish' demeanor. Jane grumbled wordlessly under his breath.

Aide Wilson ushered them into Abbott's office. Abbott rose and shook Cho's hand, then Jane's. Jane grinned and openly surveyed the office.

"Nice digs, G-man."

Abbott ignored him and made introductions. "Agent Kimbal Cho, West Coast Region. Agent Mae Matheson, Central Region. Agent Aadil Malik, East Coast Region." Tone arid, "And this is Consultant Patrick Jane." Everyone took seats. "The FBI apprehended two men who flew into Dulles under falsified passports. We believe they're planning simultaneous major attacks in the US and other Western nations. The Europeans are extraditing them for terrorist activities in France and Germany. The CIA has been interrogating them since yesterday without much to show. We need to learn as much as possible before they're flown out at six tonight."

Cho interjected, "Coordinated mass attacks. That's a change from recent years. Why?"

"ISIS has been driven from much of the territory it occupied, their leaders are scattering. Al Quaida also suffered major losses, isn't the organization it was under Bin Laden. Multiple highly visible, coordinated attacks would restore their credibility."

Maik said, "Aren't ISIS and Al Quaida competitors?"

Abbott shrugged. "'Enemy of my enemy...' Presumably they are temporary allies with a shared goal."

Matheson commented, "Islamic terrorist groups have multiplied and spread widely since 9-11. That's plenty successful."

"True. But it's been 16 years since 9-11 – Al Quaida's most visible and most successful attack. The young men they need to recruit were children in 2001. ISIS is literally losing ground. Both organizations need big, successful attacks to preserve the image of a growing, effective movement. –You're here to look for connections to radical Islamic elements in your regions. You can feed the interrogators questions. Video of all interrogation sessions will be emailed to your offices." He rose and led the group to the interrogation facilities.

Abbott opened the door and ushered them in. Instead of a bare space with one-way glass looking into a small interrogation room, this looked like a theater. A couple dozen upholstered chairs were mounted theater-style facing the glass wall. Headsets were mounted by each chair. Jane whispered to Cho, "Our tax dollars at work."

Abbott explained, "The headsets provide live audio feed in the left earphone, with simultaneous translation from Arabic in the right. Signal the coordinator," he nodded toward a man standing at the front, "if you want to feed a question to the interrogators. He's distributing summaries of what's known about the two suspects." Matheson and Malik moved forward to take seats. Jane lingered so Cho did as well.

"Why so many?" Jane asked, scanning the nearly two dozen people taking seats.

The big man's voice rumbled quietly, audible only to Jane and Cho. "Law-enforcement counterparts and staff from the UK, France, and German–"

"–I can see that. Other than cop counterparts, why are the rest here?" he asked, looking at a dozen others.

Dryly, "Legions in Washington fancy themselves indispensable." Nodding to one group, "Homeland, the CIA, NSA, military intelligence, etc." (Jane looked but the man from military intelligence who'd snatched him a few months ago wasn't among them.) Abbott indicated another group. "They are aides to key House and Senate members on the intelligence, defense, and foreign relations committees."

"And them?" Jane looked at two Europeans standing apart who looked like bureaucrats.

"Observers."

"Of what?"

"Observers to make sure our interrogations comply with EU human rights standards. Our interrogations after 9-11 triggered a firestorm of criticism both in the US and among our allies. The current administration wants the intelligence without the controversy. That's why you're here."

Jane nodded. "Hm."

Jane chose an isolated seat off to the side in the first row. Cho took a seat nearby.

Two interrogators relentlessly questioned the suspect for three hours, drawing upon human and electronic intelligence to probe for information. Security agency staffers occasionally suggested questions or lines of questioning. Abbot, Cho and the other regional task force heads fed them names of US residents who might be involved and asked about cities likely to be targeted. Jane said nothing and barely moved, every fiber focused on the interrogation. Near the end of the three-hours Jane signaled the coordinator.

"Can they push him about 'a flight of birds'?" a phrase electronic surveillance had picked up in a conversation between the suspects.

"Specific question?"

Jane ran his hand through his hair. "No. Just bring it up a couple of times."

"Will do."

The session ended and the first subject was taken away. Cho and Jane rose and stretched out the stiffness.

Cho said, "LA is targeted, no surprise. And Frisco. The Golden Gate Bridge would be a prize. Did you get anything?"

Jane rolled his neck and shoulders, bones audibly cracking. "I agree about the cities. I may have something else." Cho waited then shrugged, knowing Jane wouldn't elaborate until he was ready.

They headed to the men's room down the hall, badly needing a break before the second interrogation started. On their return they availed themselves of the complimentary beverages. Cho got coffee. He quirked an eyebrow when Jane got tea _and_ coffee.

Jane explained, "Our fearless leader's been too busy working the political aides to get his own." Cho left to touch base with people from the various security agencies. Jane waited patiently until there was a break in Abbott's conversations. As Abbott took a grateful sip Jane said, "Fill me in on the players," nodding toward the American civilians.

"You probably won't be in contact again."

Diffidently, "Humor me. I'm curious about all the moving parts."

After another sip, Abbott started systematically identifying them. "The first is Darnell Jackson, chief aide to Senator Zecchin, head of the foreign relations committee. John Sanders is..." He ran through the staffers for Senators and Representatives. The last person was an attractive, polished woman in her mid-30's. "... The woman on the far right is Courtney Wentworth–"

"–I thought there was a _Senator_ Wentworth?" Jane asked with a puzzled frown, recalling the name.

"She's a key aide to her grandfather, Peter Wentworth. Decorated war hero, senator for three decades, head of the Armed Services committee, and influential on the Homeland and Intelligence committees." The woman met Jane's gaze for a moment before returning to her conversation.

Abbott deliberately moved in front of Jane, blocking his line of sight. "Stick to reading the suspects. These are _not_ people to mess with." The consultant looked at Abbott with eyebrows raised, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Abbott reacted with a growled, "Remember – my credibility protects your special deal."

Now grinning, "That deal is a binding contract."

"Trust me: Another supervising agent would be much harder to work for." Abbott finished his coffee and tossed the styrofoam cup into a wastebasket. He glanced at the interrogation room where a man in handcuffs was being led into the room. "I'll be back shortly."

Jane turned and had to step sideways to avoid colliding with Wentworth, his sleeve brushing her shoulder. "Excuse me."

She gracefully extended her hand. "Courtney Wentworth."

"Patrick Jane." Jane shook her hand automatically.

She looked him up and down. "Abbott's secret weapon."

"Pardon?"

With an easy smile, "Dennis Abbott's been touting 'Patrick Jane' as the solution to the Administration's problem. That you can get information from terrorists without any ... unpleasantries. Or controversy."

Cho rejoined him at that moment. Jane smiled and took the opportunity to move away. He threw a, "Nice meeting you," over his shoulder and took the seat next to Cho.

"What was that about?"

"I have no idea. Yet. Interesting, though."

 **CIB, Sacramento, Wednesday**

Hightower looked up from her desk, keenly taking in the woman before her, then rose and extended her hand. The two shook.

She gestured for her to take a seat. "Teresa, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Director Hightower. Thank you for making time."

Eyebrows raised at the formality, "So this isn't just personal." Briskly, "Why are we meeting?"

Lisbon leaned forward slightly. "I want to work for you as a senior agent leading a CIB unit."

Hightower tilted her head and regarded her speculatively for a moment. Coolly, "Why?"

"You know my record. The CIB is under-staffed, particularly short on experienced supervising agents and–"

Hightower impatiently waved that away. "That's not what I mean. I can sing your professional praises better than you." She leaned forward. "Tell me why you want to step back into a law enforcement agency."

Lisbon paused. "You've talked with Abbott." It wasn't a question.

"We keep in touch. He and I go back decades. I'm know why you left the FBI. – Why would you buy into another agency?"

Deliberately, precisely, "I want to return to law enforcement working for _you._ I trust and respect your leadership."

Hightower glanced at the slim Longines watch gracing her wrist. "Let's talk over lunch. –If you have time?"

Masking her surprise, "Of course."

Fifteen minutes later they were seated in a secluded booth in a restaurant frequented by capital city movers and shakers. Lisbon noted that the price of the entrees could cover her weekly grocery bill. She set it aside as unimportant. They ordered then sipped their beverages.

"Teresa, I need to know what you want from working with the CIB. The honest agents suffered under Bertram, then were further betrayed when the CBI was disbanded. You and your team most of all. Are you truly able to put that behind you?"

Lisbon idly rotated her glass, caught herself and laid her hand flat on the table. "Yes. Bertram is history as is the CBI. I'm a cop and want – need – to do law enforcement. I won't work under leaders I don't respect, which is what the FBI offered once Abbott left Austin. And I can't do law enforcement as a private investigator."

"Why?"

Bluntly, "I don't have access to information I need. Back up varies depending on the PD I'm working with. Anyone I could hire wouldn't begin to compare to trained agents–"

"–Such as you had with Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt."

She nodded. "I can't get criminals off the street or make sure the system works the way it should." She leaned forward, "I trust your leadership. I trust the CIB is honest and will stay that way with LaRouch playing watchdog."

Their food arrived and they began their meal. Hightower eventually continued. "I won't insult you by making my decision contingent on anyone else. But I am curious. Where does Patrick stand in all this?"

Lisbon momentarily frowned, then decided to take her at her word. "I'm here to see if working for the CIB is an option. I don't know what he may want."

Hightower's eyes glittered. "You know I value his talents, but any decision about him _is_ separate from you." She looked down and picked at her salad. "As a married couple he couldn't report to you anyhow."

"Understood." Looking directly at Hightower, "If Jane and I end up working for the CIB, this time I will not accept having my job held hostage to his actions."

Hightower looked away first. "I think we can find a mutually acceptable arrangement about that. ... _if_ it even comes up."

While they ate talk turned to Hightower's goals for the CIB, capital politics, and news about mutual professional acquaintances. Meal over, the server cleared their dishes, leaving them to finish their coffees. Lisbon looked expectantly at Hightower.

Hightower leaned back. After a moment she said, "I won't hire you as a unit lead," and was impressed when Lisbon didn't react. _Patrick has rubbed off on her._ "I want you to be my assistant director."

Lisbon repeated, "Assistant director?" to give herself time to think, "I'd report to you and do – what?"

"I don't have enough waking hours to shape the CIB into the organization it should be. You have the experience, judgment, and talent. You're respected by people who know you. You're respected by agents who just know your team got Red John and exposed Blake, and then flushed out the Blake leaders when you were with the FBI. You're what the CIB needs. What I need."

"The duties would be?"

"Managing the CIB day-to-day. Grooming the newer senior agents. Overseeing cases, developing policies, budgeting, hiring, doing performance reviews. I would remain the face of the CIB to the outside world."

Lisbon licked her lips. Finally, "I need to think about it. When do you need to know?"

"I'd like to know if you're interested this week. The salary range is double that of a senior agent. Benefits would be the standard California government package similar to what the CBI had."

Hightower paid the bill, declining Lisbon's offer. They parted after walking back to the CIB.

 **Rigsby-Van Pelt Home, Sacramento, Wednesday Evening**

Rigsby closed the door, tossed his keys on the table and put his weapon into the gun safe. Delicious smells led him to the kitchen. "Hey, Grace." He kissed her cheek as she stirred a pot. Whoever got home first started dinner. He dropped a kiss on Taylor's head and ruffled her hair.

Van Pelt turned and drew him into a hug. "Hi. Sarah's back from their vacation. She's bringing Ben over tonight. Her delivery date is next week so we'll have Ben for the whole next month."

Rigsby gently pried Taylor's arms from her death grip on his left leg. "Hey, urchin. Let Daddy sit down." He plopped himself on a kitchen chair, pulled his little girl onto his lap and bounced her gently on one knee. To his wife, "That's great. Does Min know yet? And when are we gonna start looking for a nanny for when Min's academic year starts?"

"Hey, one thing at a time." Her brow wrinkled in a frown. "I told Min about Ben. She told me she needs to go home for a couple of weeks."

"To Korea?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

She sighed, "Next Sunday, for two weeks."

Rigsby scratched his head. "That's not much notice. It's kind of irresponsible," he said disapprovingly.

She sighed. "Actually, it isn't. Remember I promised to drive Lisbon to the, um, the fertility procedure if Jane was away on a case for Abbott? Min has to go now to be back for that."

He shook his head. "Why is she going all of a sudden?"

Exasperated, "I don't know. Teenagers aren't the most communicative. Anyhow, I was thinking we could skip the chaos if we visited my folks for those two weeks. –They've been bugging me to visit and we both have carryover paid time off from last year."

His face fell. "My team has an arson conference next week."

"Oh, shoot. I forgot."

He shrugged. "Maybe just you and the kids should go. I'd like to see your folks, but – you know."

She turned from the stove to face him. "Really? You'd be okay with that?"

He stood with Taylor held in one arm and pulled his wife into an embrace. Nuzzling her neck, "I'd rather go with, but I can't get out of the conference. Going away sounds like our best bet with Min dropping this on us. Damn, I'll miss time with Ben too."

"Thanks, babe. I'll call my folks later."

 **Washington D.C., Wednesday Evening**

Cho and Jane paused outside the FBI building. The second interrogation went much like the first. The suspect reacted to some of the same cities and people as the first, giving Cho specific leads for his team to check. Jane again asked about the "flight of birds" reference. It didn't seem significant to Cho but he long since had learned to pay attention to anything Jane thought noteworthy. He made a mental note to have Hassan and Muhammad see if it was a reference to something in the long, rich literature of the Arabian culture. _Birds. Migration. Water. Who knows?_ There was a meeting tomorrow morning of everyone who attended the interrogations from American law enforcement, intelligence, and security. He and Jane had the evening to kill.

Cool air moving southeast from Canada had dropped D.C. temperatures by 20 degrees. The walk to the hotel was a pleasure. They checked in, showered, and met in the lobby. Cho was in jeans and a tee. Jane wore his three pieces with a fresh shirt, having only business clothes.

"Dinner?"

"Starving. You know the city. Where should we go?"

They settled on a renowned barbeque place and thoroughly enjoyed the rich, heavy food. Conversation privacy was ensured by the noisy hubbub.

Cho leaned back, digesting. He sipped his beer. "You're enjoying this."

"The food? It's good."

"The trip."

Jane looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "What's not to enjoy. New people to read, a chance to twit the pompous and some overly-serious G-men–"

"–Hey."

Jane grinned. "Abbott, Matheson and Malik. Unless the shoe fits..." he shrugged.

Cho took another swig and changed topic. "You think you got something?"

Jane rolled his eyes. "We spent all day on this. There's a meeting tomorrow. And we won't get anywhere until you sic your team on the problem."

"Fair enough." Eyeing him curiously, "Reading them was hard work," both statement and question.

Jane grinned easily, "I always work hard."

Cho grunted. "Usually doesn't show."

Jane shrugged without comment. Cho dropped it but filed the tidbit for further consideration. Picking up on Jane's earlier comment, "' _We_ won't get anywhere'? Going to help?"

Jane tilted his head back and forth. "Sure. It's an interesting problem."

Cho's chances for thwarting the terrorists had just risen. Cho was undecided for a moment, then dived in. Calmly, low key, "You and Lisbon need to reconsider what you're doing."

Jane's humorless grin was belied by a hard glint in his eyes. "We 'need' to, do we?"

Cho took a breath. "Law enforcement without the tools, authority or back-up will get you hurt. –Will get _Lisbon_ hurt."

Voice hard and cold, "I will do whatever's necessary so she doesn't. This is something she and I will work out."

Cho blinked at the absurdity of _Jane_ ensuring _Lisbon's_ physical safety and tried again. "You can't control everything. Either she gets hurt herself or she's hurt if you're injured."

The silence amid the hubbub was deafening. They stared at each other a long minute. Impasse. The server placed their check on the table, breaking the tableau. To Cho's relief the tension left Jane's shoulders and his easy demeanor returned. Cho paid the check.

Outside Cho looked anywhere but at Jane and asked, "Want to do anything?" _Either he will or he won't. I said what I had to._

Neutrally, "I'm going to wander around, look at the monuments."

 _He's letting it go_. Cho exhaled in relief, "Didn't think you cared about government."

"Quite the opposite." Unexpectedly serious, "Some thoroughly human, imperfect men crafted an amazing system of government. It's politicians I don't care for."

"Huh."

They worked off the rich food as they walked from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial, walked among eerie statues of soldiers frozen in eternal reconnaissance at the Korean War Veterans Memorial. The Vietnam War was before their time, but the names of fifty-thousand fallen made a powerful impression. The number of dead from the Vietnam War dwarfed that from Cho's tours in Iraq, but that took away nothing from the sacrifices and deaths of those involved. The World War II Memorial was more traditional but no less powerful in calling to mind the chaos and death that literally affected the whole world. Their final stop was the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial, commemorating someone who'd fought a different but no less important war for the soul of the nation.

It didn't escape either man that the interrogations they'd just attended, the task before them differed in details but not import. Of course terrorist attacks should be prevented and the perpetrators captured or killed. It wasn't an overstatement to say that the values of Western civilization were at stake: Democracy, freedom, the rule of law – civil, not religious, tolerance, individual liberty.

Footsore from all the walking, they'd reached their limit for sobering history. Cho ventured, "Enough monuments for one night?"

"Yeah. It's still early." _Too early to call Teresa with California three hours behind._

"I know a comedy club worth a try."

With surprised delight, "You never cease to amaze me. Let's go."

It was midnight his time when Jane called using his burner phone. After shedding jacket, vest and shoes he leaned against the headboard, legs stretched before him.

"Hey."

Warmly, "Hey, yourself. How'd it go?"

"All right. I think I picked up something. Something not obvious."

"Is it useful?"

"Maybe. I'm going to hang around with Cho's team and help on this."

"I take it Abbott didn't haul your ass to D.C. for something minor."

He shook his head then remembered to speak. He exhaled in a long sigh. "No, it isn't minor."

Voice now serious, "Then it's good you went, good you'll help Cho."

"How was your day?"

"Okay."

Teasing, "'Okay.' Very descriptive. What did you do?"

"Um, nothing much. I had lunch with a friend."

"No details, not even the name of that friend. What's really going on, Teresa?"

"We can talk when you're back. When _will_ you be back?"

 _High voice, anything but 'nothing much.'_ "Tomorrow. There's a meeting in the morning so I should be back late afternoon, your time." _I definitely want to talk in person about anything so important that you're dodging the topic._

"Good."

"Are you doing all right with the infertility injections, feeling all right?"

"Yeah. They're a pain–"

 _Literally_ , he thought. He'd seen the impressively long needles needed for the intra-muscular injections and was glad they weren't a big deal for her. He shuddered slightly at the image then refocused on the conversation.

"... okay so far." She sighed. "I just hope it works."

"We will have a family one way or another, dear." He yawned, struggling to stay awake. "Unless there's something more, I need to turn in. I'm working on four hours of sleep on a plane."

"Good night, Jane. Don't get in trouble."

"Good night, Teresa." She could hear the smile in his voice.


	15. Chapter 15 - Lemons into Lemonade

**Chapter 15: Lemons into Lemonade**

 **D.C. to Sacramento**

The sound of the jet engines changed. Jane looked up and book-marked his page. His companion peered out the window.

"What's so interesting?"

"Wildfires."

"Someone you know's affected. His house?"

"Ex-military. Provides air support to fire fighters." Jane didn't need to know her gender. Or the connection.

The plane landed smoothly, barely intruding on their conversation. Jane let the niggling sense of slight deception go. He glanced at Cho's watch as they taxied to the gate. "You're heading to the FBI?"

"Team meeting. Get them started."

"I'll come. Will you drop me off at home after?" Lisbon texted she'd be home after finishing several case reviews for a couple of PD's. He definitely didn't want her rushed or stressed this evening.

Cho shook his head. "I'm staying late."

It was just after the end of the work day. Cho's team was waiting in response to his call before leaving D.C. They grouped loosely around his desk on the nearly deserted floor. Ojara and Hassan leaned against desks, Vega and Muhammad had dragged over chairs, Wylie sat at his desk. Lacking a couch, Jane leaned back in a purloined office chair with his legs draped across the seat of another.

"We know Al Qaeda and ISIS terrorists are planning big, coordinated attacks in LA and San Francisco as well as other domestic and foreign cities. We know it will be soon – a week or two. That's our window to discover and disrupt their plans. Watch the video from the D.C. interrogations tonight. Call if you pick up anything more than we already have, no matter what time it is."

Ojara asked, "Other regions are working on this?"

"Yes. We share intelligence as we work the case. Everyone's starting from scratch right now." Cho checked his notes. "Muhammad, Ojara, you interface with the LA and Frisco offices. Get everything you can on Islamic radical sympathizers ID'd by the local offices. My email lists names the terrorists reacted to in D.C. Work with the locals on potential venues and modes of attack. Mass events, mass transportation, iconic structures like the Golden Gate Bridge, key government buildings, and anything else you can think of. Analyze the vulnerabilities and PR value to terrorists. –Vega, Wylie, you're on research here. We know the likely cities, know it will be big, showy. Dig up whatever you can on the people of interest. Mine their social media. See if NSA recorded them in contact with foreign terrorists. Look for large money transfers, weapon purchases, explosives, explosive components, jobs with trucking companies and recent vehicle purchases, anything suspicious. They'd probably steal a vehicle for an attack but we could get lucky. We need to narrow the possible targets and actors to stop this. Hassan, you're with me," he glanced over, "and Jane. Let's visit that professor you know on Middle Eastern Studies at Berkeley. Tomorrow you link up with Muhammad and Ojara. We meet – Skype if you're in LA – at 5 p.m. each day to share what you've found. Go." They scattered. In six months Cho had welded his unit into a smoothly effective team that leveraged local FBI and law enforcement resources to accomplish its goals. His instructions were broad guidelines. He expected his team to think on their feet and take initiative. And they did.

Cho, Hassan, and Jane parked next to the building housing Professor Ahmed's office. Ahmed quickly agreed to research references to "a flight of birds" in Arabian and Persian literature, particularly religious texts, and even volunteered to ask colleagues to help. He would contact Hassan if he found anything and at the end of a week. Meeting over, Cho and Hassan paused outside the building.

"Ahmed's a good resource."

The younger man brightened at the implied compliment. "Cho, mind if I take a cab? I've got a lot of video to watch tonight."

Cho nodded as he looked around. "Where's Jane?"

"He wanted to ask Walid, um, Professor Ahmed something." Hassan waved down a passing taxi. "If that's it?"

"Go."

Jane stepped outside the building. "I'm here." Cho nodded and they walked to Cho's FBI SUV. "You'll pass my house. Drop me off?"

"Yeah."

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento**

Jane tossed Ahmed's flash drive on his desk on the way to the bedroom. Lisbon would be home in thirty minutes and he wanted to shower and shave by then.

Lisbon closed the door and divested herself of bag and gun. She started when Jane's arms encircled her waist from behind. Smooth, cologne-scented skin brushed hers as he quietly said, "Welcome home." When she turned he pulled her close for a kiss. Thorough. Unhurried.

Surfacing for air, "Hello to you too," she murmured, pulling back a little.

"Missed you," he responded, nuzzling her neck. With regret he stepped back a half pace before they got _too_ caught up. "You'll have to hustle. Reservations at 8."

A crease appeared between her eyebrows. "Reservations?"

"The Firehouse."

She grinned. "That's a treat. Why?"

"I said I'd make it up to you." He ignored her sideways glance dismissing he had anything to make up. "I've been losing sight of something important."

"Which is?"

He tightened his hug. "Enjoying life with you."

She hugged back and kissed his cheek. "I'll be quick."

They'd dined there months ago, loved it, and somehow had not been back. The renovated 1850's building was open and classy with refinished wood floors, high ceilings, gilded mirrors and expensive art. The food was sufficiently innovative to interest him while also satisfying her inner carnivore. Although up-scale, she fit in comfortably with dress slacks, a silk blouse, and dressy ankle boots (heels not too high in respect of old Sacramento's cobblestone streets). He was comfortable in his three pieces. Anywhere, anytime.

They eschewed the formal interior, the cool evening air of the courtyard more welcoming. By unspoken agreement, conversation was light and entertaining during dinner. Sated and relaxed, they capped their excellent repast by sharing a sundae of pear ice cream, whipped cream, and chocolate both drizzled and shaved. Jane licked the final luscious drops from his spoon. Lisbon scraped up the last delicious ice cream puddles.

After a perfect moment of relaxed ease, Jane took the initiative. "What didn't you want to tell me when I called yesterday?"

She set down her spoon and pushed away the dessert plate. Her forehead creased and she straightened. "I saw Hightower on Wednesday."

Amiably, "And how is Madeline?"

"She's fine. That's not why I went."

"You're considering working for the CIB."

She shifted uneasily, "Maybe."

He smiled gently, "It's an obvious possibility, my dear. Talk to me."

She leaned forward. Earnestly, "I wanted to know what my – our – options are." With a pang of guilt, "I didn't commit to anything." He nodded encouragingly. "Jane, Patrick, I, um–" changing direction, "do you _like_ having our own agency? Now that it's been several months?"

He half-smiled and shrugged. Noncommital. "Some aspects, yes. Others, not so much."

She rolled her eyes, knowing she wouldn't get a straight answer. She set her jaw and plowed on. "The Wilkerson case made up my mind. I can't do honest, effective law enforcement as a PI." Still no reaction. She asked sharply, "Do you disagree?"

Quietly, "No. You have a choice. We can specialize in different types of cases, more like what Rigs and Grace did. Or, you need a government position to do law-enforcement work like your SCU years. What do you want, Teresa?"

She looked away and bit her lower lip. "I'm not sure."

He gave her a searching look. "No. You _are_ sure but don't want to say. _What to do you want?"_

She swallowed. "I want to work for the CIB." Her eyebrows drew together. "I want to head a unit."

"But?"

"Hightower refused. She won't hire me to lead a unit. She offered me assistant director."

"Hm." Jane gently swirled his wine and took a sip. "What do you think?"

Still frowning, "I prefer leading a unit to pushing paper."

He snorted, "Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven?"

She exhaled in frustration. "No matter how it's dressed up, assistants don't call the shots."

"Is Madeline being unreasonable?"

"Not really. She said I'd have authority over hiring, performance reviews, budgeting. Groom new SA's." Lisbon flicked her hand in irritation. "She'd set policies, interface with the AG, and represent the CIB to the outside world. It, it isn't what she says or even intends. It's that everything I did could be second-guessed." Her gaze slid over his face and she looked guilty. "I told her I don't know what you want. She said one spouse can't report to the other."

He nodded. "Logical."

She touched his arm, "Patrick, I won't do anything unless we agree. What do you want?"

He raised his eyebrows and rubbed his hands gently before steepling his fingers. "I'm not sure. When does she need an answer?"

Sighing, "This week." Unnecessarily, "Tomorrow."

"Give me a bit." He took another sip.

Lisbon relaxed now that she had broached the issue, now that it was in Jane's court. "Tell me about D.C."

He glanced around, confirming their conversation would be private. "We sat in on CIA interrogations of two terrorist suspects. Muslims from Germany and France, emigres from awhile back."

"You could read them?"

He huffed. "Not well." He shrugged the tension from his shoulders. "I focused on physiological responses, micro-expressions. The kind of thing Ekman researched." She made a mental note to look that up. "I tried to ignore tells that are more culturally influenced."

"And?" she asked gently, knowing he'd find uncertainty about this profoundly unsettling.

He grimaced. "I'm maybe 75, 80% confident of what I read. This morning everyone from the intelligence agencies met. My conclusions are mostly consistent."

"You said you picked up something important. Something more?"

"Mmhm." He raked his hair with one hand. "There was a phrase in an email that the NSA intercepted. The words are innocuous, but I'm convinced it's important." He blinked and focused on her face again. "Cho has a Middle East professor researching the reference..." He trailed off, lost in thought again.

Her hand got his attention. "It sounds like a Jane hunch to me. What exactly are they planning?"

He closed his eyes and stilled. After another subtle check to be sure of privacy, "ISIS and Al Qaeda are planning big, coordinated attacks in several US and foreign cities."

"Oh, God."

Roughly, "Yeah." He cleared his throat, shook himself slightly to throw off the pall. "Homeland and our foreign counterparts have a couple of weeks to figure it out. And stop it."

Jane closed the door and shed his suit jacket and shoes. Lisbon slipped off her boots and stood them neatly by the stairs before heading to the kitchen. He sank onto the couch as six hours of travel, dinner, and jet lag caught up to him.

"Tea?" she called from the kitchen.

"Please." He leaned back and relaxed, eyes closed.

She set their cups and a few foil-wrapped pieces of dark chocolate on the coffee table, then snuggled next to him, legs folded beneath . She scanned his face.

"What?"

"Hmm?"

Her hand stopped his fidgeting. "You're thinking too loud. What?"

He nodded unconsciously as the detail became clearer. "Hightower. What were her _exact_ words when you asked to head a unit?"

Her eyebrows rose at the minutia, but she humored him. After a moment, "'I won't hire you as a unit lead.' Verbatim."

He tilted his head and murmured. "Now isn't that curious? She didn't say she didn't _want to_ , or the budget precluded it, or that she _preferred_ you take the assistant director position. It was a flat refusal."

Disgruntled, "Yeah. I don't know why."

He sat up, removing her comfortable Jane pillow. Animated, "Rigs and Grace say the CIB desperately needs seasoned SA's. Even if Madeline wanted you to take assistant director, she _should_ still jump at the chance for you to head a unit. A flat refusal makes no sense. So why?"

Patiently, "I'll bite. Why?"

He grinned. "I have no idea. Something's going on. Press her until she levels with you."

Lisbon scowled and reached for her coffee. "I will. Damned if I walk into anything blind," she grumbled, irritated that Hightower was somehow playing her. She tore off the foil and ate her two chocolate pieces.

Jane sipped his tea, pleased he pinned down the detail that was bothering him. They set down their cups and sat close again.

She ventured, "Your turn. If I take a CIB job, _any_ job, what do you do?" She licked her lips anxiously. "It's not a good idea to go solo as a PI. Too dangerous." He huffed, scoffing. She poked him in the side. "I'm serious."

He rubbed his cheek. "I don't want to continue our agency alone. Where's the fun in that?"

"Then, what?"

"How about free-lance consulting? For the CIB. The FBI."

She frowned. "If it's with Wayne, Grace or Cho. You know how I feel."

He shrugged diffidently, "That might be fine. I rather fancy the flexibility ... not having come up a wage slave like some people." She elbowed his ribs sharply this time. "Ow! Violent woman!"

They cuddled in companionable silence. He idly stroked her shoulder, she played with his right hand.

Eventually, "How are you feeling, with all those shots?"

"Okay. A little ... full. Bulky."

His hand drifted down to gently stroke her abdomen. "What happens if you take a position and get pregnant?"

She stiffened. "I do the job, have a baby, get childcare help and deal with it. Millions of women do."

Low key, soothing. "Law enforcement is a bit more demanding than most jobs, don't you think? Babies don't lend themselves to irregular schedules. Or even sleep for several months."

She sat up and slid back to face him. Her rising anger was tightly leashed. "I know women who went back to work the day after giving birth." Tightly, "I'll do whatever it takes."

Jane stroked her arm. In a conciliatory tone, "I know firsthand. Babies require a lot of flexibility and–"

"–What do you want me to say, Jane?" openly angry now. "I don't have the, the _luxury_ of scheduling it out across years. I gave that up hunting Red John. And Blake."

Jane took a breath and gingerly scooted closer, arms wide, palms down, placating, soothing. Softly, "Teresa, I'll help you do what you want anyway I can." Intensely, "Babies do require flexibility _which I can provide_. I was just thinking free-lancing could work for us both."

Taken aback, anger instantly extinguished, "Oh. –Oh. Jeez, Patrick." She blinked rapidly, trying to master the flood of emotion. _Damned fertility drugs!_ "I didn't realize that's where you were going with this."

Jane embraced and rocked her gently. "I should have gotten to my point faster. My dear, I can't have the baby for you, but I can and will help make it work." Guilt flickered across his face. "Except for me, you'd be running the CIB by now."

Protective, adamant, "No. Except for Red John and Blake. And the governor... And FBI."

He kissed her cheek. "Bedtime. C'mon." He rose and shepherded her to their bedroom, turning off lights along the way.

Their nighttime routines to get ready paradoxically left them more alert. They made love despite being emotionally wrung out. It was a moment more for warm affection than grand passion. He took exceptional care to be gentle, respecting the discomforts caused by the fertility drugs. Kisses, caresses, and tender attention reinforced their love and mutual caring more than words. Deep sleep claimed them, confident they could deal with anything so long as they pulled together.

 **FBI, Sacramento**

Jane strolled from the elevator, having been admitted after Wylie vouched for him with Security. It was early and the floor was mostly empty. Only Wylie and Vega were present from Cho's team. Jane chatted a few minutes, picking up on the general thrust of their research. After making tea he rounded up a couple of office desk chairs and reclined in one with legs draped across the other. He put his tea on a low filing cabinet and leaned back with his eyes closed. Office sounds and stray bits of information from Vega and Wylie washed over him. It would take time for Cho's team to gather enough information for theorizing about the planned attacks. Meanwhile, he was amused by the flurry of serial chair filching when agents arrived and found their chairs missing.

Twenty minutes later a stiff piece of plastic landed in Jane's lap. He stirred and picked it up.

"You're helping, you need an ID for this office."

"Thanks." Jane examined the laminated clip-on ID. "Access restricted to this floor? Really, Cho?"

"Mancini."

Jane laughed. "He's that paranoid? Weak. And futile."

Cho shot him a glance. "Don't need you ragging Mancini. Anyhow I have better ways to use your time. –Wylie!"

"Cho?" The young man hurried over.

"Get that feed set up. I want audio and visual for Jane when Hassan, Muhammad, and Ojara question people of interest."

Wylie nodded. "I'll have it automatically record if there are overlapping conversations."

"Good."

Jane waited till Wylie was back at his desk. Quietly, "I don't know Arabic. Reading is iffy across cultures."

Cho faced him. "They'll speak English as much as possible. And I don't care. Pick up what you can."

"I–"

"–Your 'not good enough' is better than anything else we've got. Still an edge." Cho gave him a moment then said quietly, "Just do it, Jane."

Jane took a deep breath, then turned and followed Wylie to a room set up with the needed equipment.

Jane joined the team to compare notes at the end of a long day. The team had started the grinding process of contacting people, gathering clues and hints, and running each possibility down. He contributed some insights despite his misgivings. On his way home he detoured to the UC Berkeley bookstore and was delighted to find two of the books Ahmed had recommended.

 **CIB, Sacramento**

Lisbon nodded thanks to Hightower's personal assistant as she was ushered into the office. Lisbon seated herself on the couch without asking. She wouldn't allow Hightower the advantage of sitting behind her imposing desk while she sat in front, metaphorical hat in hand. Not if she could help it. After a moment Hightower rose and seated herself in an upholstered chair opposite the couch.

Hightower smoothed already sleek hair. Pleasantly, "Good morning, Teresa. Your meeting."

The picture of calm, Lisbon smiled and sipped her coffee. "You wanted an answer today. I need more information."

"What do you need to know?"

"What's really going on. The CIB is desperately short of experienced, competent unit leaders. Yet you flatly refused to consider me for that position. How does that make sense?"

Perfectly reasonable, "You're more valuable to the CIB as assistant director."

Lisbon took another sip. "That may be but it doesn't answer my question. Why wouldn't you consider me for unit lead if I refuse the other position? Why is it so important that I'm assistant director?"

Hightower's face remained perfectly neutral, a tell in itself. She rose and pressed the intercom button. Crisply, "Hold my calls. No interruptions." Hightower checked that the office door was closed and latched before reseating herself. "This is in confidence. It goes no further–" she blinked and sighed, "except for Patrick."

"All right."

"AG Gordon is retiring. Damon Fuller was his hand-picked replacement, a shoo-in." Dryly, "Fuller is dropping out of the race to save his marriage."

Lisbon's eyes narrowed. "Fuller would have been your new boss. So?"

Hightower's lips pressed in a thin line. "I want to run for AG. I'm negotiating with the governor and party leaders."

Lisbon blinked in surprise. "AG? Don't you have to be an attorney?"

Amusement bloomed. "I am. I was a prosecutor back East for years, till I got fed up with corrupt politics and switched to law enforcement. California's a mess. With Fuller out, I don't fancy working for some place-holder party hack. I have a chance to change the system." Lisbon looked hard at her, uncomfortably reminding Hightower of Jane.

Lisbon mused, voice hushed, "And if that works out, maybe governor some day?"

Hightower laughed. "That's another conversation years away." She leaned forward, intensely serious, "With party backing, I'll very likely get elected. After the Blake mess, the CIB _must be_ clean and effective. California doesn't exactly have an abundance of experienced, top quality law enforcement these days."

"Why not recruit from out of state?"

Hightower unconsciously tapped her cup with a perfectly manicured finger. "California has a bigger economy and population than most nations. I need someone who already knows the state, the issues, the players. An outsider would get rolled. And there is always the question of trust." She frowned, "I thought we'd kept Blake out of the CIB till you three flushed out the Blake leaders with Abbott. Damned if one hadn't slithered in. And I was about to hire another." They sat in silence for a minute. Hightower looked Lisbon squarely in the face. "There are precious few people I'm totally confident are honest and competent. You are one of them. I fail as AG if the CIB fails. You'd become director when I'm elected."

Lisbon leaned back and breathed deeply. She barked an uneasy laugh. Slowly, "I'm not sure you want me as director."

Hightower blinked in surprise. "I highly doubt that. Why?"

Lisbon battled her desire to resume her career, step back into the position that, yes, she had earned and would have had if not for the CBI's dissolution. Mastering herself she explained. "If I became director I would _be_ director in every sense. There are things I want to change."

"Go on."

She thought of the Wilkerson case. And Blake. "Citizens have no practical recourse when law enforcement is corrupt. Or lazy, or incompetent, or biased. Blake wouldn't have succeeded otherwise." Reede Smith's confession flashed through her mind. "I want a program allowing citizens to ask the CIB to review cases botched by the locals and re-open the investigation if necessary. That authority already exists but is never used, and never by citizens." She waited for Hightower's reaction.

"Many families cannot believe their precious relative is a criminal. You risk having every case in the state second guessed by the CIB. The PD's would be furious."

Lisbon nodded soberly. "That's why I'd need the AG's support. I wouldn't want the CIB willy nilly reworking cases competently and fairly handled by local law enforcement. But we desperately need more checks and balances."

"What else?"

"PI's. PI's could augment law enforcement if we forged good working relationships instead of considering them annoying distractions."

Skeptical, "What do you have in mind?"

"I want to implement a program to thoroughly vet PI's in return for granting access to government information."

Hightower smiled slightly, breaking the tension. Her eyebrows rose. "Better vetting?"

Lisbon smiled in return. "Current requirements aren't exactly rigorous. PI's who passed _thorough_ vetting could request searches of law enforcement databases directly pertaining to their cases–"

"–Except for privacy concerns and over-burdening our already stretched tech staff," Hightower demurred.

"The PI's would pay for it. Academy trainees could do the work. Trainees and databases would remain under government control. The PI's would only get the results of narrowly defined searches relating directly to a case."

Hightower sat quietly, then nodded slightly. "We could try it. –What else?"

Lisbon thought about how Agapito had almost been killed. "Illegal immigrants." Hightower stirred but didn't interrupt. Carefully, "The CIB and all law enforcement must follow the law. But I'll be damned if it makes any sense for sanctuary cities – hell the whole state now – to knowingly release violent criminals. I'd want you to work toward getting the leeway to keep predators off the streets, whether in prison here or by deportation." She quickly added, "I have no stake in the broader immigration issues, but it will never make sense to me for violent perps to walk. Innocent people have been killed."

Speaking precisely, "The AG and CIB _will_ follow the law. I share your views on violent criminals no matter who they are. I cannot guarantee we'll get anywhere with the legislature but I'm willing to try." Hightower leaned back and sipped her coffee. "Any other difficult requests or is that it?"

Lisbo's gaze pinned her. "As director I'd want to run the CIB with no more than broad guidance."

Hightower delicately sniffed and muttered, "As though I'd micro-manage..."

They shared grins remembering their rocky start years back. "Can I have your word you wouldn't without good reason?"

Soberly. "Yes. I'll have my hands full as AG. I'll need someone who doesn't need hand-holding. –And Patrick?"

"Jane wants to free-lance for the CIB and FBI on a case by case basis. I'd want him to work with Rigsby and Van Pelt." Hightower nodded her agreement. "He would report to them during cases with oversight by you. Would that work?"

Hightower nodded. "That checks the legal and ethical boxes. Formal authority or not, I'll expect you to minimize the chaos."

Lisbon nodded. She cleared her throat and unconsciously squared her shoulders. "There's one more thing." Hightower nodded encouragingly. "Jane and I are trying to have kids. I _will_ continue working even if we do."

"How can you be sure?"

"Jane and I will make it work."

Hightower tilted her head. "He's on board with that?"

"He suggested it. Free-lancing will give him the flexibility we need for a family."

After a moment she said formally, "Teresa, will you take the assistant director position, knowing you'll become director when I'm elected November next year? Knowing I'll be spending most of my time campaigning till then?"

"With that understanding, yes, as soon as you get approval to run on the party ticket."

Hightower shook her head while extending her hand. "You've come a long way. You'll be terrific for the CIB." They shook and rose. "I'll know from the party by the end of next week. If you can, I'd like you to read through some materials beforehand. I'll have legal prepare an employment contract for you to look over."

Both rose and Hightower unexpectedly pulled her into a quick embrace. After, Lisbon shoved the sheaf of files into her briefcase and left. Lisbon maintained a neutral expression until ensconced in the privacy of her SUV. She let out a yell and smiled till her cheeks hurt. She couldn't wait to tell Jane.


	16. Chapter 16 - Counter Terrorism

**A/N:** Apologies for the long wait since my last chapter. RL sadly interferes with FF sometimes.

To refresh your memories, this is a sequel to The Long Way Back. In TLWB, Jane returned from Venezuela and worked for the FBI with Lisbon and Cho. Together they hunted down the leaders in the Blake Association who were very much still corrupting US law enforcement. Abbott had apprehended most of the Blake foot soldiers (conveniently identifiable by the red dots) during the two years after McAllister was killed. A Blake leader framed Jason Cooper and took over Visualize to use its members to replace the bottom tier of Blake. Jane, Lisbon and Cho prevailed over Blake, with some help from Van Pelt and Rigsby. Abbott took a new position heading the FBI's national counter terrorism (CT) unit in DC. Lisbon decided the mediocre Austin FBI SAC Pike and SA Tork would get Jane killed and renegotiated his contract before Abbott left for DC.

This sequel started with Lisbon and Jane taking a road trip through the SouthWest to Sacramento and getting married along the way. They bought a home and are trying to have children. They traveled to Europe for a honeymoon/vacation then started their own private investigative agency upon return. Running their own agency proved less appealing than they hoped because, as a PI, Lisbon simply can't do the law-enforcement work she really wants to do.

By this chapter, Lisbon has decided to rejoin the CIB (which replaced the disbanded CBI) working for Hightower, who hopes to be elected AG. Van Pelt and Rigsby are senior agents in the CIB with their own units. Jane owes Abbott work on six cases per year for five years, but is otherwise free to live, work, and travel as he wishes. Partly because of his aging mother and at-risk teenage cousins, Cho accepted an FBI position heading a regional FBI CT group based in Sacramento under SAC Mancini. Jane is working with Cho to foil a terrorist attack. Whew. I hope this refreshes your memory so you can enjoy the chapter without too much confusion.

* * *

 **Chapter 16: Counter Terrorism**

 **Rigsby Household, Sunday**

"Come _on,_ Min!" Van Pelt called impatiently when the teenager dashed back inside instead of entering the car. Her step-son kicked the back of her seat in time with his music till she turned and glared. "Ben!"

Two-year old Taylor threw toys from the car seat then fussed when she couldn't get them. Rigsby patiently reached between the front seats and retrieved them. Again.

"Sorry," Min said, breathless as she ran up. She slid into the back alongside Taylor, clutching three brightly-wrapped packages. Luggage and child gear were already loaded. Rigsby turned on the ignition and pulled away, relieved to be on the road.

Min had stayed the weekend to hitch a ride to the airport. She was off to visit her family in Korea before the start of the academic year. Van Pelt took vacation time rather than juggle work and child care during Min's absence, time enough for a short visit with her parents in Iowa with the kids. Wayne would join them after a week-long conference if no arson cases surfaced. Off work, Grace could do the favor she'd promised: She would drive Lisbon to the IVF retrieval procedure if Jane was on a case for Abbott. Min need not return early.

Forty minutes later the five reached the security checkpoint at the concourse for the Iowa flight. Min hugged Ben and Taylor then embraced Grace after Wayne stepped back. Wayne hugged Ben, kissed Taylor and quietly slipped away with Min while the kids were distracted by the screening machines.

Rigsby and Min trekked to the screening station in the international concourse. When Rigsby set down her carry-on she shyly gave him a quick hug. He returned it after a moment, wondering at how open and friendly she was compared to when they met to help Mrs. Cho after the stroke. _Cho said touching is unwelcome in Korea except by relatives and close friends. Guess we finally made the grade._ It had taken forever and several requests before Min would use his first name.

Affectionately, "Have a good trip, Min. We'll miss you."

Gaze down in respect, "Thank you, Wayne. I'll really miss Ben and Taylor." She quickly joined the steadily moving line.

Rigsby left, mind already on work he had to finish before the conference. He glanced back when he reached the main corridor and was puzzled that Min was being hand-screened. He hesitated then shrugged and continued. _She wouldn't take banned materials. She'll call if she needs help._ He also brushed aside the odd detail that she had just three gifts for four family members – two step-sisters, step-mother and father. Paperwork beckoned, his least favorite part of heading a CIB unit.

 **CIB, Monday**

Though Lisbon rose early Jane was already gone. The travel mug of perfectly prepared coffee he left was appreciated. _Ironic he's the one logging long hours._ She would have gotten to the CIB with time to spare despite an appointment for an ultrasound and blood draw, except traffic was snarled by a fender bender. Finally at the CIB and through screening Lisbon slipped between closing elevator doors, turned, and faced forward. The crush thinned as people got off at floors before her stop.

"Ms. Lisbon, it's a pleasure to see you," a familiar voice said behind her.

Turning, "Agent LaRoche! Good seeing you again."

They disembarked on the top floor, pausing while other passengers dispersed.

Measured, "Visiting? ... Or, has the CIB procured your services?"

Conversation was awkward though she respected and even liked the man. "I'm doing consulting work for Director Hightower."

His weighty, "Hmm," seemed to imply some hidden conclusion.

Lisbon mentally kicked herself for feeling faintly unsettled. Keeping others off-balance was a LaRoche specialty and, by now, automatic. "The CIB's lucky you'll be keeping it on the straight and narrow, JJ." Delicately, "The Director must value you despite past ... differences." His relentless drive to root out corruption offset many, many quirks. It was obviously enough to compensate for accusing Hightower of Todd Johnson's murder. _God, was that really four years ago?_ If – _when_ , she amended– she became director she'd be glad to have LaRoche's competence and integrity.

Ponderously, "And yet a Blake member infiltrated the CIB until you, Agent Cho and Mr. Jane exposed him. Law enforcement is repeatedly in your debt."

 _That's on Hightower for ignoring your warning._ She blinked at finding herself discussing such a heavy a topic during a chance encounter. She glanced at her watch. "I don't want to be late. See you around." _JJ doesn't_ do _small talk,_ her lips curved in a small smile, _at least not well._ She hurried on. By Friday Hightower expected to get the nod to run as the party's AG candidate and Lisbon would accept the assistant director position. _Temporarily_ _till she's elected._ She bridled at being "assistant" anything.

 **California**

Wildfire consumed swaths of Napa Valley, lapped at the fringes of LA, and threatened a half-dozen other locations, killing several, reducing homes to ash, and denuding hillsides. The firefighters slowly prevailed despite nature's power and fury. Alyssa Chay worked her 23rd day straight dropping water and fire suppression chemicals for the state.

 **FBI, Sacramento, Workweek**

Cho's team was spread between LA, San Francisco, and Sacramento. Ojara, Hassan and Muhammad worked with local FBI agents to identify those who would find it appealing to commit terrorism for ISIS and Al Qaeda. Wylie's AV feed let Jane read the people as agents conducted interviews, grinding methodically through a couple hundred people during 16-hour days. Vega and other agents visited companies that sold explosives, explosive components, and weapons. They also examined potential targets and urged the responsible parties to harden their facilities. Wylie sifted massive quantities of data about potential targets and the individuals of interest as the names dribbled in.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Wednesday Night**

Lisbon got up from couch as the front door softly clicked shut. _Almost midnight again._ "Jane?"

"Expecting someone else?" his voice floated from the foyer, fatigue swamping attempted humor.

She gave him a kiss as he shed his suit jacket. "There's leftovers. C'mon, I'll warm some up."

He followed and started fixing tea till she shooed him away. He sat at the kitchen table while she worked, nearly dropping off. He blinked awake when she set down his food.

She sat across and gave him time to start the meal. "How's it going?"

He set down his fork and ran his hand through his hair. "Slowly. Maybe too slow." He paused, eyes unfocused, then picked at his food while rubbing his temple with his left hand.

She left and returned a minute later with two aspirin. "Take these. –How are you tackling it?"

He swallowed the pills with tea and ate a bit more before continuing. "Cho's got his team–"

 _Huh, still Cho's team,_ she noted.

 _"–_ checking people of interest, weapons and explosives companies, possible targets, Muslim leaders."

More softly, "And you?"

He exhaled in frustration, "I'm listening and looking in on the interviews. I can't read them well enough to be certain of anything. Worse," he paused while taking a few more bites, "even if we know the 'who,' that won't necessarily get us the 'how' or 'when.' Without concrete information, the FBI can't hold them indefinitely. They'll try another time."

"Are the other regional teams having any luck?"

"Not yet." Conversation lapsed as his thoughts resumed tracing their grim path. Only when Lisbon started clearing dishes did he return to the present. "Sorry. –What about your day, Teresa? And the IVF cycle?"

She finished loading and starting the dishwasher. "I'm working up the CIB budget proposal for next fiscal year. Hightower's got me reading agent files and reviewing the current cases. It's just dull doing paperwork all day." More positively, "Dr. Robinson is pleased so far. It looks like seven ova are maturing. Another ultrasound tomorrow. Retrieval will be next week, followed by fertilization and transfer a few days later."

He hugged her, murmuring, "Good, good. You're feeling okay?"

"Well enough." She drew back a bit. "I know you've gotta focus on this case with Cho. Grace can come back and take me to the retrieval procedure if necessary."

"Come back?" he frowned.

"Didn't I tell you? She's on vacation in Iowa with the kids. She'll fly back if you're tied up."

"Wasn't Min supposed to help if Grace is busy?"

"Min's in Korea. Grace'll do it instead of having Min cut her trip short."

Evening had bled into the morrow by the time they showered and prepared for bed. Jane managed not to drown in the shower despite being dead on his feet. He was asleep the instant body contacted mattress.

Worry kept Lisbon company instead. There was a critical difference between counter-terrorism and homicide cases. CT wasn't about getting justice, it was about saving lives by foiling attacks. _And if they fail? Jane still blames himself for his family's murder. Abbott's new job means Jane will be working CT for years. Damn._ She eventually fell into fitful slumber.

Jane was already up and out when she woke.

 **FBI, Sacramento, Friday**

It was the end of the work day. Muhammad strode in and flung her hijab on her desk. She pivoted only to be face-to-face with Hassan who'd entered after her. After an intense, whispered exchange she abruptly headed down the corridor toward the women's room.

Jane rose from where he was draped across two chairs and followed Hassan into the break room.

Casually, "Rough day?"

Hassan started, then turned and nodded to Jane. Glumly, "We have to fit in. We pretend to be devout Muslim husband and wife so I treat her like she'd be treated in the Middle East. Then she gets mad at me."

Jane stirred his tea. "You know her background. Is it any surprise?"

"No."

"Yet your views are similar about women and religion." It wasn't a question.

Frustrated, "Asiya thinks I'm humoring her."

"You–" Jane paused until Hassan looked at him, "–you have your own reasons to question the strict interpretation of Islamic law." Alarm flitted across the younger man's face. Gently, "Let those personal reasons convince her you're sincere." Jane tossed the stirring stick in the trash and ambled back to the bullpen with his tea. He dropped a cell phone on Cho's desk.

Cho glanced up. "Getting new burner phones each week is nuts, Jane."

"Or a reasonable precaution."

Cho grunted and tossed it in his open briefcase. _The US has 800 satellites, tens of thousands of cameras monitoring people and traffic, and a couple million drones sold each year. I've gotta clue Jane in on how many ways intelligence agencies can find and track people. –Later._ He refocused on the file.

Jane scanned the room as he settled himself across two chairs. Exhaustion had rendered Wylie's pale face chalky white, except for dark shadows under his eyes. Coke cans and foam coffee cups littered his desk. Hassan wearily sank into his chair and switched on his computer. Ojara was slumped over his desk, only eyes alert as he scanned his monitor. Muhhamad returned to her desk and shoved the hijab into a drawer, a tightly wound bundle of stress. Cho's impassive visage was belied by the tension in his arms and shoulders. Jane blinked dry, scratchy eyes and tried to will away a dull headache that seemed to have become permanent. He was more tired than he'd been since the Red John years.

Cho looked up when Vega finally appeared. She stowed her bag and notes, crisp professionalism ground down to dogged determination by the long hours and looming threat of attacks. She glanced longingly toward the break room. Cho caught her eye and nodded. There was time for her to get coffee while his team grabbed their notes and gathered in the conference room.

Cho started when Vega joined them. "I just finished a conference call. No breakthroughs in the other FBI regions. What've we got?" He began with Ojara.

"The LA and SanFran agents have settled on eleven potentially violent Muslim radicals." The overhead monitor displayed the names and photos of eleven men ranging in age from late teens to early 30's. "Most were already under surveillance. We got search warrants for the rest." He grimaced and shook his head. "No weapons or explosives. No electronic or hard copy plans for an attack. Nothing dangerous in any storage lockers linked to them. Nothing concrete."

"What about radicals in other California cities?"

Ojara shrugged broad shoulders. "No, unless it's truly a lone wolf. The local agents are convinced an attack would involve some of these men. Wylie and I checked background, financials, employment, travel history, associates. Their radical orientation is all over social media, but no clues about a planned attack. NSA intercepts link them to foreign radicals, but nothing on the date or type of attack."

Jane observed, "That's not surprising. The attack could be triggered by a phrase set up months ago."

"Jane, anything?"

He leaned back in his chair, sipping tea. "I looked at everyone interviewed. I agree these eleven are the most suspicious. They're all angry, defensive, serious, determined. Devout, even zealous. Rauf, Salah, Aziz, and Kassem were more anxious than the others. But," he inhaled and exhaled slowly, "that may just be a reaction to feeling like an embattled minority in a hostile environment."

Cho pushed him, "So?"

The consultant ran a hand through his hair. "Siddiq, Aziz and Kassem _seemed_ to be hiding something." He frowned, "I'm no more than 75% sure that's significant."

"Hassan, Muhammad?"

Hassan glanced at Muhammad who nodded for him to start. "We posed as Muslim husband and wife new to California. We visited 34 mosques in LA and San Francisco with reputations for strict adherence to Islam. Their imams are mostly Wahhabi. Local agents walked explosives-sniffing dogs past the mosques and cultural centers when crowds gathered or left. A dog alerted on one man but he turned out to be a civil engineer whose crew was blasting rock for a highway. The eleven men on Ojara's list worship at the mosques we checked but it would take time to earn the trust of the imams and members."

Muhammad added, "Several of those men are married. Wives Aziz and Rauf are worried for their husbands. It might be only general fear their husbands will eventually act." Disappointed, "Nothing actionable."

"Vega?

"Local agents and I checked every source of weapons, explosives and explosive components we could find. Once Ojara got us photos of the eleven, we showed their pictures around to retailers, although a lot is bought on-line these days. No hits. Wylie couldn't find any connections either."

Wylie added, "Stores are cooperating. They shared customer lists for the last year. Only one, Kassem, bought anything of interest, a handgun. He has a license and permit. No suspicious credit card purchases by the eleven. Even if they used aliases, no hits from the shipping addresses against addresses of the eleven."

Cho turned back to Vega. "Airports, train stations, stadiums, iconic structures?"

"Locals are working those. They checked with the airlines, airports, and TSA on recent hires." She shifted uncomfortably, "There are a few questionable ones, and local agents are keeping an eye on them. Nothing stood out. Railways are doing their best, but there are hundreds of miles of track. Station masters and stadium managers have implemented tighter controls on employees and ban access to infrastructure by non-employees. PD's are patrolling big, internationally known structures like the Golden Gate Bridge. We alerted them to the higher threat level." She flicked her hand, "Buses and trucks have been used in mass attacks, but once we get down that far the vulnerabilities are endless."

Jane mused, "Al Qaeda and ISIS need big, flashy attacks to reestablish their reputations. Buses and trucks aren't dramatic enough ... aren't _extraordinary_ any more."

Cho's visage darkened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "We keep looking then. I–"

Jane interrupted, "Did the professor come up with anything on that 'flight of birds' reference?"

"Hassan?"

"I checked with Walid – Professor Ahmed." Hassan pulled up a letter on the monitor. "Several references, but they're pretty general. I didn't see anything useful in them." The group spent a minute reading the monitor.

Jane straightened and mused, "And yet the extradited European terrorists talked about that."

Cho stopped himself from suggesting coincidence and said instead, "Okay, birds could mean planes. That hasn't produced anything so far." He looked around the group, "We may have the 'who' – some of the eleven men. We _know_ there will be an attack. We _know_ there has to be a plan for mass destruction."

Wylie doubtfully volunteered, "I can check for sales of explosives and components to _any_ address in heavily Muslim areas, but that's pretty broad brush..." he trailed off. He didn't mention the obvious. Broad brush meant lots of culling. It would take time they might not have.

Hassan offered, "We could tail everyone on the list 24/7–"

"–For how long?" Ojara interjected. "When we stop, then what?"

Jane tilted his head. "You've already looked. _Thoroughly_ _._ Maybe you haven't found anything because it's not there. What if the attacks use the stored kinetic energy of a plane or train? Explosives or firearms weren't needed for the 9-11 attacks."

Iron discipline kept Cho's response neutral. Tightly, "Obviously. We _have_ checked airline passengers and maintenance crews every way we can."

Vega added, "Airlines and railways are taking this seriously. We can check further but they've given us everything they've got."

Jane tapped his lip. "Cho, what if the metaphor isn't planes but birds? A flock of birds brought down a plane on the Hudson River."

Cho frowned, "Not real birds, drones?" Jane nodded. Cho shook his head. "They'd have to position it to be sucked into the engine of a plane traveling hundreds of miles per hour. A close miss wouldn't work without explosives and we haven't found any."

Now excited, "What if several drones acted in concert, like a flock of birds? They're cheap, readily available and easy to use. No one monitors drone purchases the way they do explosives and weapons."

Wylie interjected uneasily, "Um, drones are controlled by different radio signals. You know, so my drone doesn't interfere with someone else's."

"No way to harness them together?"

Cho replied. "Military has drone swarms that operate together. Nothing civilians could buy."

Jane looked from Cho to Wylie. "Couldn't you program a computer and other, uh, other electronic gear to put out the signals needed by, say, a dozen drones?" Looking at Cho, "Have the 'flock' take flight at take-off or landing when the plane's in a predictable place. Voila! Big, flashy disaster that kills hundreds of passengers and maybe more on the ground. It'd make the news and internet worldwide."

Soberly, "Wylie, is what Jane describes possible? By civilians?"

Eyes shining, "I'm no engineer but yeah. It sounds possible."

"Ojara, find some electrical and IT engineers and ask. Homeland and military might know too. Vega, see which LA and Frisco runways are vulnerable to a flock of birds or drones, probably near the edge of airport grounds. Wylie, look for credit card charges to buy drones among the eleven. Someone buying a bunch at once might stand out–"

Hassan added, "Or they might get friends to buy them. A club or something."

Cho nodded. "You and Muhammad go to the mosques these eleven men attend. See if you can pick up anything about a sudden interest in drones–"

Muhammad said with asperity, "Women would grumble at spending time and money playing with drones. I can get them to talk about that."

"–While you're at it, Wylie, check if any of our prime eleven are electrical engineers, electronics techs, or college students with heavy electronics and IT backgrounds." Re-energized, the group started to rise. "Wait. Work as long as you want, but everyone gets at least six hours of sleep. Be back here 7 tomorrow morning."

Jane lingered after the others left. "Cho, this is a hunch. I didn't read this from anyone."

"May not pan out. But it's a better than anything else we've got. –I need to call Abbott," he said and left.

Jane closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, shoulders slumping as tension drained. _Logical but just a guess. Damn._ The uncertainly was profoundly unsettling. He was used to _knowing_.

 **San Francisco, Saturday**

Alyssa Chay unlocked her door, stumbled in, dropped her stuff, and fell into bed fully clothed. She slept until she awoke naturally for the first time in a month. The most dangerous wildfires were contained. Several days of unseasonably cool weather with possible rain were forecast - an unexpected and most welcome gift.

 **Frazier Park, California, Early Sunday Morning**

"... I don't even know where that is." Van Pelt bounced Taylor on her knee while she talked on her cell.

"South of Bakersfield, west of the mountains. The local sheriffs think someone used the fires to cover up several murders. Multiple jurisdictions, murder, and maybe arson so they called in the CIB."

"That's a new twist. How did they know it was murder and not the fire?"

"They might not have. Except for the bullet hole in one skull. Sorry I didn't make it to Iowa, babe."

"It wouldn't have worked out. I was going to come home today in case Lisbon needs me to drive her. Craziest thing. Every direct flight to Sacramento is booked full. There's nothing till Thursday."

"How will that work with Lisbon?"

"I called. She says Jane's got it covered."

"Hey – gotta go. The team's meeting for breakfast in ten minutes."

"Say bye to Daddy, Taylor."

"Bye-bye, Daddy. I'm gonna ride the pony."

"Have fun, sweetheart. Don't fall off. Love you."

"Love you."

"Me too, Wayne. Bye."

 **FBI, Sacramento, Sunday Morning**

"Jane, stop," Cho said quietly when the man walked back from the break room for the fifth time in an hour.

Jane paused. "We know their plan and we're sitting on our hands."

Calmly. "They're under constant surveillance. We're coordinating with New York and DC so no one is tipped off ahead of time. Abbott's trying to coordinate overseas."

Jane grimaced and sat in Cho's side chair. "What if they decide to attack more cities?"

"We're monitoring Sac International as well as LA and San Francisco. Agents around the US are monitoring major airports. We've got this."

 **LA, San Francisco, Sacramento, Monday Evening**

Agents followed the key suspects through another agonizing day, waiting for them to act. Six p.m. in California, it was three hours later in New York and DC. If it got much later it would too late to hit the news before people turned in for the night. A cloudy day, a brief shower had produced mist and gloom. There would be no moon. It was August 11 which might, or might not, have some twisted import connected to the 9-11 attack in 2001. Half a world away it was daytime in the other targeted cities.

Senior agents managed the op for their cities, switching surveillance among agents to remain undetected and to bring in fresh personnel as the hours dragged on. The senior agents also coordinated among the three cities, with Cho handling both Sacramento and communications with Abbott. Cho's agents were deployed two to LA and San Francisco each. Cho and Wylie monitored Sacramento International with Jane in the SUV with Cho. Dozens of local agents were helping. After a while, they automatically tuned out the roar of jets taking off and landing. Noise-cancelling headphones ensured they'd be able to communicate.

An eternity of mind-numbing boredom would be followed by moments of sheet terror.

Jones reported, "Kassem is heading toward LAX. No sign of drones or other equipment." Dozens of agents shadowed not only the main suspect, but many of his friends and relatives. The same was true in each city.

Terse with tension, Fischer reported, "Aziz just left work. He is ... not, repeat _not_ , heading for his house. He's not carrying anything."

Cho asked, "How about his car?"

"Checked earlier. Nothing. We've had it watched since, too."

Cho added, "Rauf's been hanging around in Sacramento since noon. ... Looks like he might be going toward Sac International. – Wylie, all the equipment in place, all the techs set?"

A moment later Wylie replied, "Everything's set. Gave the heads up to everyone."

Jones said, "Kassem's younger brother pulled out of a friend's garage. There're stacks of something on the back seat covered with a blanket."

Fischer said, "Aziz just met up with someone a few blocks from the airport. My guy says he's seen Aziz with him before. A-n-d, yes, they're unloading stuff from an SUV."

Seconds dragged as they waited to be sure. Cho said quietly, "Rauf's two blocks from Sac International. He stopped at a parked moving van. Is opening the back. – Yes!"

Cho listened on one phone then, " **NOW** **. GO GO GO. TAKE THEM DOWN. DEPLOY INTERFERENCE!** "

He lunged from the SUV to watch the take-down. Jane got out more slowly. Both watched with night vision goggles as his team and others swarmed Rauf and the van. Shouts and tinny clatter rang from the speaker from the three sites, then the bang of gunfire.

 **"REPORT – ARE ALL DRONES DOWN? IS INTERFERENCE WORKING?"**

Breathless, "Kassem and brother are down and cuffed. Drones are secured."

Wylie shouted, "Rauf's under arrest. We have the van with the dron–"

"–Fisher reporting, Aziz ran, was wounded but he'll live. His friend's in custody. Drones are secured."

Cho took a breath and dragged the night vision goggles off. Calmly, "Take the suspects to your local holding center. Fischer, be sure Aziz is secured and guarded at the hospital if he's admitted. No one has access but treatment personnel and make sure they're vetted. –Everyone, be absolutely sure all drones and computers are in FBI possession and transported to secure facilities. Continue operating the interference equipment at each airport until further notice. Agents should get some rest. The special interrogation teams from DC are already in place and will begin as soon as the suspects arrive. Questions?" He waited a moment. "Jones, Fischer, good work. Please pass it along to your agents."

"Good night, Cho."

"Good op."

Wylie walked up. "We're ready to take Rauf and his gear to HQ. Is there anything more you need me to do?"

"See that the DC interrogation team is set up at the office. Be sure they know where Rauf's drones and computer are stored in case the FBI tech specialists get there early. Then I don't want to see you before noon." The young man turned away. Cho called after him, "Wylie, good work."

Wylie grinned and disappeared into the night to coordinate work by the other Sac FBI agents assigned to the op.

Cho phoned Abbott. "Sir, take-downs were successful in all three cities. Suspects and their equipment are secured. One suspect was wounded but will survive." He listened a moment. "Good to know. ... Any other orders right now? ... Thank you, sir. ... Yes sir." He ended the call and leaned against the SUV.

"You have a fan, Jane."

"It's over, everywhere I mean? The attacks were stopped in New York and DC too?"

"Yes. Abbott hasn't heard from overseas yet. –Buy you a beer? Or dinner?"

Jane raked a shaky hand through his hair. He glanced at his cell phone, astonished it was only a little past 8 p.m. "I'm going home. Lisbon hasn't seen me before midnight this week."

"Jane." Cho put a hand on Jane's arm. "You made the difference."

The blond consultant rubbed his forehead and said only, "Yeah. I'll get a taxi," and walked toward the airport.

Cho reminded, "Closed case pizza tomorrow."

Jane nodded a little. "Maybe," and faded into the night.

 **Near El Paso, Mexico, 4 A.M. Tuesday**

A man dressed in jeans and a black tee handed his guides a thick envelope. Nothing was said; nothing needed to be said. They melted into the darkness going south. He walked the last few miles alone and slipped across the border into the US. He followed the memorized instructions and soon found the nondescript sedan waiting for him, half hidden by the shabby abandoned gas station. The ignition key was wedged under the rear tire as expected. After buying a sandwich and bottled water at a convenience store he headed for the interstate. He had a long way to go to fulfill his mission.

* * *

A/N: I have no idea how the FBI would handle an actual take-down of suspected terrorists. My apologies if my guesses are way off. BTW, there actually are military drone swarms. There is also a device designed to disrupt drone radio control signals, which I assumed might be used in the case.


	17. Chapter 17-Love in the Time of Terrorism

**Chapter 17: Love in the Time of Terrorism**

 ***** M-Rated. Not Graphic *****

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Monday Night**

Lisbon read files in the living room with the TV on and sound off. Restless, she rose and switched on a lamp and headed for more coffee. _Something could go down. Or not._ Yesterday's surveillance was a bust. That was no surprise. Electronic intelligence suggested August 11th – Monday – would be the day, but they covered Sunday too just in case. With nothing on the news she could only speculate as she waited for the coffee machine to finish.

She was grabbed from behind. His identity registered fast enough so her elbow bruised instead of disabled. "Dammitalltohell, Jane!"

"Oww!" he whined, loosening his grip.

"Don't _ever_ sneak up on me!"

He pulled her close again and kissed her. Hard. She first resisted, then kissed him back. He stepped sideways toward the bedroom, half-walking half-pulling her along in his embrace.

She shoved a little harder. "Jane. What is–" Her mouth was muffled by hungry kisses. She blinked. Frowned. Went along. _He never pushes it. What the hell?_ Light spilled through the doorway illuminating his face. Eyes closed, he thrummed with tension, gripped by something only he knew.

Her clothes disappeared fast despite uncharacteristic fumbling. _Kiss that top goodbye._ She undressed him in turn, slowing his frantic haste while getting caught up by lust herself. Both naked, he tipped them onto the bed. Torso supported by his forearms, his body nestled between her legs, throbbing erection pressed against her belly.

She shoved. Hard. "Stop!"

His breath caught. His eyes snapped open, searched her face.

"I _can't_. IVF."

He groaned and turned away. "Oh, god." Eyes stricken, "I'm sorry, Teresa."

She pulled his head back to face her. "Hey. Just no intercourse," and startled him by flipping them over. She rubbed her body against him, skin on skin. Lust flared. They kissed. Fondled. Petted. He jerked when she grasped his rigid erection and started to pump. So close, it only took a half-dozen strokes. He bucked, arched in tension, came. He fell back panting, damp with sweat. After a moment he made a vague motion toward satisfying her, but she brushed away his hand. He managed a kiss then collapsed back, yielding to sleep.

 ***** End M-Rated *****

Lisbon disentangled herself and lay on her back, taking deep breaths until lust and tension eased. Her heartbeat slowed. _What was that about_ _? Oh, God, was someone hurt?_ Calmer, she rose, padded to his side of the bed and wiped the semen from his stomach with tissues. She pulled up the covers and kissed his forehead. After grabbing her clothes she left, closing the bedroom door behind her.

It was barely 15 minutes since Jane had surprised her. The TV silently flickered images of a show, uninterrupted by breaking news. She went to the kitchen, dumped the now-cold coffee and put in another pod to brew before grabbing her cell.

"Cho, Lisbon. Did something happen? There's nothing on the news. ... Yeah, he's home, um, showering ... That's terrific. No injuries? ... How'd you keep the media vultures away? ... PR'll handle it tomorrow. They love the wins. ... Hey, how did Jane react? ... No reason. He just hasn't said much yet. ... I'll remind him. Congratulate your team for me. Not too shabby, Cho."

She disconnected. _Attacks thwarted, terrorists arrested, civilians saved, team safe. And Jane needs comfort sex. What?!_ She shook her head at her endlessly complicated husband. _Cho said Jane didn't seem all that happy._ Anything that got him that wound up _had_ to be hashed out. She set it aside till tomorrow.

It didn't hit her till bedtime. The day's events were a piece of cake compared to the Red John years. Her heart ached at the thought of how little comfort he'd allowed himself, or allowed anyone to even offer back then. She swallowed roughly, infinitely glad they'd made it through. They'd deal with this, whatever it was.

 **Van Pelt, Sr. Household, Iowa, Tuesday Mid-Morning**

Van Pelt pushed fiery red hair behind her ear. "Hello? ... Hey yourself. Missing you too. ... Since the case is dragging on, okay if we stay till Sunday?... Nope. _Lots_ of non-stop fights are suddenly available. It's just Ben's having fun with my brother's kids and Taylor loves the pony. Hold on–" she got up and closed the door. Quietly, "My folks are bugging me for more time with them." She smiled sweetly, "Wayne, I love that you like my parents. They're just a little pushy sometimes. ... Hightower will be thrilled you closed four cases. Uh-oh, Taylor's fussing, gotta go. ... Love you. Talk to you tomorrow."

 **FBI, Sacramento, Tuesday Afternoon**

The regional CT task force straggled in after noon. Hassan and Wylie looked up from paperwork as Cho entered the bullpen, shed his jacket and loosened his tie. Muhammad would be in later after a dental appointment she'd deferred for the case.

"Nice press conference, boss." Ojara said slyly as he passed Cho's desk.

Cho just grunted. Mancini did all the talking and was the face of the successful op to the press. Praise and blame naturally floated upward in bureaucracies. Cho only minded self-serving weasels like Bertram (who'd been moldering six feet under the past three years) who hogged the credit while ducking the blame. Mancini could have the spotlight. Future ops could be compromised if his team's names and faces became known.

Nearby, one workman folded up an enormous cardboard shipping carton. The other gatheered plastic scraps and a tool chest. They disappeared into the service elevator.

Vega strode in looking rested and chipper. "Hi, Cho–" Her gaze locked onto the new piece of furniture until–

"–Whoa, Michelle!" Wylie caught her upper arms before she crashed into him.

She jerked her head around and blushed in embarrassment. "Sorry, Wylie. I, uh–" She frowned, "Why'd Cho get a couch?" The comfortable-looking couch was jarringly out of place.

Wylie smiled in good humor. "You'll see–" he noticed Jane strolling in, "very soon."

The consultant sipped his ubiquitous tea as he ambled toward Cho. He nodded politely to the team and smiled at Vega's confusion and Wylie's grin. Eyebrows raised, he circled the couch, scrutinizing it closely. "Cho, you shouldn't have!" he teased in a syrupy voice.

Cho glanced over. "I need your statement by day's end." He added, "You can dictate,"before Jane could protest.

Jane tipped his head diffidently, attention on the couch. He tested the cushions and ran his hand over the – yes – butter-soft, full-grain leather. Dubiously, "It's gray."

"Your backside won't care," Cho answered without looking up.

Jane gingerly sat, set his tea on the floor, swung his legs up and settled in, for all the world like a finicky cat.

Wylie whispered to Vega, "Jane strong-armed Abbott to get him one in Austin. He says he thinks best horizontal."

"Okay," Vega said dubiously. "I guess." She went to her desk, shaking her head. This wasn't what she expected when she trained at Quantico.

Jane smiled, eyes closed. Wylie was right. And he had a lot of thinking to do.

The DC interrogation team finished its preliminary interviews and arranged for the terrorists to be relocated for extended questioning and confinement. Whether that would be to Guantanamo or a State-side prison Cho didn't know or care so long as they stayed locked up and isolated. (Prisons turned out to be excellent recruiting sites for terrorists.) California FBI terrorism teams would have access to any locally relevant information they gleaned. The DC tech team took possession of the drones and computers. Before leaving the lead agent told Cho the terrorists' electronics and IT work required specialized knowledge and skills. This method of attack couldn't readily be copied. Of course, now that this new vulnerability was known airports would install defenses.

A steady stream of Sacramento agents drifted through, quietly congratulating the team on the op. Agents always appreciated a win, but even more the bureau had prevented a major loss of life. This was the payoff that drove agents to put up with long hours, danger, interrupted weekends, missed holidays and lost family time.

Cho's team gathered in the break area at day's end for pizza. When only crumbs and boxes were left they cleaned up and went home, satisfied and feeling good. Cho and Jane were last.

Jane followed as Cho cleared off his desk and got his things. Cho finished and leaned toward Jane with elbows propped on the desk and hands clasped. "Out with it, Jane."

Jane patted the couch. "I appreciate the thought. But I don't think so."

"About what?"

"The work." He glanced around, including everything.

After a moment, "You owe Abbott."

Jane exhaled slowly. "We'll see."

Cho rose to leave then paused and turned back. "We all know the downside. You don't have a choice any more than the rest of us."

Jane frowned, "How do you figure?"

"You have a conscience." Cho turned and walked away. Jane stared after him, unseeing.

 **Jane-Lisbon Home, Tuesday Evening**

Lisbon parked in the driveway and fetched two bags of groceries from the back seat. The door was unlocked and she entered cautiously, relaxing when she saw Jane on the couch. He'd avoided talking that morning; she'd make sure he talked to her now.

"Hey." She locked the door, stashed her gun in the safe and headed to the kitchen.

"Hey, yourself," he replied, glancing over his shoulder as she passed. He was the image of carefree ease.

He wasn't exactly lying, but she didn't welcome a return of the front he'd affected for years at the CBI. "Dinner?" she called as she put groceries away.

"I ate. Cho sprang for closed case pizza."

"'Kay." She'd have leftovers later. She grabbed a soda and sank down next to Jane on the couch. After a moment she clicked off the TV with the remote.

Mildly, "I was watching that."

" _Not._ It's been paused so long the TV's getting those interference lines. –I pressed record. You can watch later."

He sipped his tea then put it on the table. When she nestled against him he couldn't resist draping an arm over her shoulders and pulling her close. "Mmm. This's better than any show."

"The IVF procedure's at 10 tomorrow. Remember you're driving because of the anesthesia?"

"Of course." He blinked, just now recalling the details after being caught up in the op. He kissed her cheek. "Are you okay? Any concerns?"

"About the procedure? No sweat." More anxiously, "I hope it works. After retrieval, they'll fertilize the eggs and transfer one in three days–"

"–Saturday."

She nodded. "You don't need to drive then since there's no anes–"

"–I'm coming." Eyes sparkling, "The husband's traditionally around when his wife gets pregnant."

She rolled her eyes for effect, sighed, and snuggled closer. When he was at the CBI Jane always avoided being touched by strangers. When they finally became a couple she was delighted at how tactile he was with her and close friends. He was more likely to talk when relaxed and content. And leaning close, she could tell when he tensed.

After a few minutes she murmured, "You didn't tell me about the op."

He shrugged diffidently. "What's to tell? Abbott gave Cho the word then Cho gave his guys the word. They did their cop thing, arrested the terrorists and got the drones and computers. No injuries except one terrorist who will live...," he trailed off.

Jane continued just as she was about to speak. "I understand someone killing for a reason. Even," he grimaced, "murder by an insane serial killer." He shook his head a little. "Terrorists are different. They deliberately, indiscriminately target innocents." He turned toward her and said quietly, "That scares the hell out of me."

"What do you want to do?"

"Not counter-terrorism," repulsed at having to understand a mind-set intent on killing innocents, the better to predict and foil attacks.

She frowned. "You owe Abbott cases ... but not forever," she allowed.

Mocking, "One down, 29 to go." _Close enough to forever._

She winced. "Not all cases will be like this – attacks against multiple cities, a thousand passengers at risk."

Jane smiled in pain, "Yeah, some will succeed."

 _God, he's not cut out to be a cop._ Softly, "What choice do you have?"

Harshly, "There's always a choice–"

"–Abbott–"

"I can game him. We have money. We can do anything, move someplace safe for a family."

She straightened, looked at him squarely. "Where is that, Patrick? Canada? Sweden, the UK, Australia? They've all had terrorist attacks. And I _want_ to be a cop." Intensely, "If decent people don't fight back the terrorists win." She shifted to less confrontational. She rubbed his back. "Yesterday's op succeeded, why now?"

Jane mutely shook his head.

Softly, "That's what yesterday was about?"

He stiffened in surprise and denied it. "I reacted to the op. I was kind of–"

She growled, "–I'll hit you if you say 'hyped up.'"

Lisbon paused. _Damn, no way this won't be trouble._ She continued when she'd decided how to make her point. "Patrick, you freaked out–" she ignored the noise he made in protest, "–because of what _could_ have happened." She bit her lip then continued. "You're used to being right every time, solving every case. Impersonal, indiscriminate hatred isn't much to work with."

He leaned forward and stared at the floor, forearms resting on his knees.

"People will die when – not if, _when_ – the FBI fails. Focus on the hundreds who are alive thanks to your team." She swallowed roughly, "Some attacks are impossible to stop. You have to accept that sometimes people will die."

He leaned back, eyes closed, face turned away. Barely audible, "I don't know if I can."

Voice hushed, "People are alive because of you. That's the only measure that makes sense."

A long while later he tiredly rose. "I'm going to take my shower."

Neither slept well.

 **Cho Family Home, Oakland, Wednesday**

Kim Chin-Sun rose early as always, made tea and ate breakfast. She had become Chin-Sun Cho – Mrs. Cho – when she moved to American with her husband. It was one of many changes made to fit in. Her son's given name of Kimball, usually shortened to Kim, didn't follow tradition, but she found it a comforting nod to her ancestors nonetheless. If she had to abandon her name, at least it was part of her son's.

Fifteen minutes' work straightened an already spotless home. Stepping outside, she picked up the litter that invariably appeared inside the fence overnight. By 9 a.m. she was driving to the San Francisco International Airport with her thoughts for company.

Life was quiet since her husband died several years ago and she struggled with feeling she was marking time. Kimball urged her to move from shabby, rough Koreatown more than once. He'd help if she ever agreed, but she wouldn't move just to move. The area was getting better, although it would take another decade before it was a _good_ place to live and raise a family. She was grateful and relieved her son had weathered the upheaval in California law enforcement and joined the FBI. Despite knowing her stroke was the cause, she was happy he returned to California, first in San Francisco and now just an hour away in Sacramento. Her concern and guilt eased when the move didn't set back his career. Now she bided her time, hoping this was permanent and he would settle down. She nodded to herself. Grandchildren would be a good reason to move. She could hope.

Mrs. Cho was heading to the airport to pick up Min-Ji. Her niece called yesterday, unexpectedly returning from South Korea a week early. Flying to San Francisco instead of Oakland meant the decision was sudden. It wasn't hard to imagine that the distraught teenager had problems at home. It wasn't hard because she knew Min's father, her brother.

She parked, found the right concourse and took a seat near the security screening area. Her thoughts drifted to the Korea she knew growing up. WWII and the Korean War left the nation desperately poor and in tatters, bitterly divided physically, economically, politically, and – most painful – socially into North Korea and South Korea. She was born in the 1950's after the armistice. Her sisters were born two and four years later, a brother nine years later, and another brother four years after that. Her father's death at age 42 pitched the already poor family into a constant struggle to survive. A distant relative from half way across the country adopted the older brother when he was a toddler to raise as their own, providing bitter relief in one fewer mouth to feed. Everyone worked when they were old enough to be useful, but there was never enough.

Choi Sang-Cheol, the smart, handsome young man who would become her husband, upended her life. Their marriage relieved her mother of one child to feed. The two 20-something adults could manage well enough, especially since she'd become a skilled seamstress. But Sang-Cheol wasn't content. During the occupation and wars his father stole food intended to go to the destitute. His son Sang-Cheol would never outlive his father's shame in their small village. US immigration law was reformed in the 1960's and he thought the US could be his fresh start. They emigrated in the 1970's and landed in Koreatown. Fierce and proud, Sang-Cheol Cho (inadvertently Americanized when a bored clerk left off the 'i'), achieved respect and success selling insurance and handling investments for Korean immigrants.

Mrs. Cho checked the flight times and learned Min's flight would arrive 30 minutes late. Her musings returned to the past. Her sisters and distant brother eventually followed them to America. She huffed to herself. With only two mouths to feed and the money they sent from America, her mother's life finally became bearable. She sighed. She didn't miss her youngest sibling. Only five when she left, even then he was ill-tempered and a bully, which her mother tolerated. He was the only son left to her, the male heir in a traditional society, ... the last link to her husband. The child foretold the man. He married and became a minor bureaucrat. His first wife died when Min-Ji was little, a loss to Mrs. Cho as she had liked the smart, modest, gentle woman. His second wife gave him two more female children. She didn't doubt there was blame and rancor for the failure to provide a son. When she was contacted by the step-mother, Mrs. Cho welcomed Min to her home so she could attend the University of California at Berkeley on scholarship.

Mrs. Cho looked toward the gate as newly arrived passengers flooded the concourse. Min-Ji quickly spotted her.

Eyes down in respect, Min-Ji greeted her in Korean, using the honorifics of younger to elder. Her aunt answered, "Welcome back, my beautiful niece." Min gladly accepted her offered hug. They made their way to the car and then home. Mrs. Cho would learn what happened when Min was ready to talk.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Wednesday Afternoon**

Lisbon sat in her office at home and tried to focus, annoyed at the lingering anesthetic fuzziness. Concerns about the process were overblown. There was only a little pain and the actual retrieval took just 15 minutes. The clinic had called to say five ova had been retrieved. (Two of the seven shown on the ultrasound hadn't matured sufficiently.) Four ova looked good. She huffed. _'Grade A.' Like chicken eggs._ She thought they were joking but letter grades really were assigned based on the quality of each egg. Once the ova were fertilized, the embryos would undergo pre-implantation genetic testing.

She was finally focusing on the file. She jumped when the door suddenly opened.

Relieved, "I didn't know where you were."

She glowered at him. "Jane, for heaven's sake, relax. I'm a little dopey from the anesthetic, not recovering from major surgery."

He licked his lips. "What about pain? How can I look out for bad effects when you disappear? Can I–"

Patiently, "I'm _fine_. I'll take a pill if I need to." She motioned with her hand, "I have ginger ale. I'll eat when I'm hungry. Stop hovering."

He sighed and dropped into the chair beside her desk. "Let me read in here for my peace of mind."

"Fine."

"Hey, what's happening with Hightower? I kind of lost track over the weekend."

Lisbon leaned back, glad he'd stopped fussing over her. "She was supposed to get the nod Friday, but the party bosses are nervous. She's given speeches about the need to lock up dangerous illegals and they're worried about the Hispanic vote."

He tilted his head. "Remind me why _any_ community would want dangerous criminals at large."

Lisbon yawned. "Yeah. Hightower is confident they'll come around. They don't have many alternatives since Fuller waited so long before dropping out."

"You'll keep doing consulting work till then?"

"Mmhm."

Jane got tea and a book. He was uneasy leaving her alone and the couch in her office was comfortable. He'd made sure of it.

 **The Cho Family Home, Thursday, Dinnertime**

Min-Ji slept twelve hours straight after her long flight from South Korea. She stayed with her aunt, knowing the Rigsby family was still in Iowa. She helped prepare dinner. Conversation during meals avoided difficult or unpleasant topics, leaving those for later. She cleared the table then re-seated herself.

Min offered her aunt tea, politely presenting it with both hands, gaze respectfully downward. Mrs. Cho graciously accepted, relieved her niece finally seemed ready to talk. The older woman had a very good idea of the nature of the problem and the reason for Min's early return. Her niece – prickly, brilliant, stubborn and young – painfully reminded her of Kimball at that age. She admonished herself to remember how well Kimball had turned out despite some very difficult years.

Speaking Korean, her niece begged, _"Aunt Cho, you are the only one who can help. My father told me not to come back. He says I shame him."_

 _"You helped me after the stroke, I'll help you. Let me judge if there's cause for shame."_

Min couldn't speak for a minute as tears streamed down her face. Eyes down, " _I'm pregnant. My baby is honyol._ "

The story came out in ragged bits over the next hour. Min had been infatuated with her handsome, single math professor. David Singer was just a few years older. Their affair started in March. She was foolish and mislead, but the relationship was very much consensual. Now she was four months pregnant. Two months ago, he took a tenured position at MIT and refused further contact. Attitudes in Korea were changing but honyol, those of mixed Korean and other racial parentage, still carried a stigma. Life in her home revolved around her father's wishes and she would not be allowed to live there with such a baby or maybe with any baby. Her timid step-mother could do nothing to help or change her father's mind.

" _What do you want to do?"_

 _"My father will never accept this. A honyol child would have a bad life if I gave him to a Korean orphanage and I wouldn't know if he went to good people. David doesn't want the baby ... or me,"_ she whispered. "Please, Auntie, _adopt my baby."_

Mrs. Cho gathered her niece into her arms. _"Min, I would love your child as my own, but it won't work. I am 60."_ Her niece stirred and shook her head in denial. Her aunt stroked her hair and continued. _"I'm well now, but ten years from now? Fifteen? Your baby deserves parents who will be with him for a long time. Honyol doesn't matter here. Tomorrow we'll go to a clinic so you can get proper medical care. We'll talk more then."_ Mrs. Cho rocked her niece while she cried. "I cannot raise your child. But I will do everything I can to love and protect him. And you."

 **Sacramento, Thursday**

After crossing illegally into Texas, the man took two days to drive to Sacramento. He checked into an inexpensive motel, paid cash, and slept for ten hours. He had a few days to check out his target. Tomorrow he would retrieve the moving van from the promised location and verify it was properly loaded. He then would have everything he needed. Satisfied his plans were coming together he rewarded himself by indulging in his one vice – the expensive coffee offered in this decadent society.

 **IVF Clinic, Saturday**

The pre-implantation genetic tests were complete for the embryos. After discarding one because of Down Syndrome, Dr. Robinson selected the most promising embryo for transfer. The other two would be frozen for future attempts. The transfer was over in 15 minutes without anesthesia. In about two weeks hormone levels would prove definitively whether Lisbon was pregnant.

Jane arranged a relaxed, entertaining afternoon for which Lisbon was grateful. Sunday would be tough, but then she'd have the distraction of work while those two weeks passed. There was ample consulting work until the party officials made their decision.

 **Van Pelt, Sr. Household, Iowa, Saturday**

"Ben, don't let Copper and Steel knock your sister down!" Grace Van Pelt called as her stepson ran around tossing and chasing a ball for the two mastiffs.

Taylor trotted around after them, too little and slow to catch up but she didn't care. She picked dandelions and presented them to her mom. Grace picked daisies and wove them into a crown for her daughter. She was happy Ben could run off some energy with the dogs. It was her fifth month of pregnancy with twins and she had neither the energy nor inclination for strenuous play.

The sinking sun painted the sky with red, ocher and purple streaks that gradually shaded to gray. Taylor started to fuss as the mosquitoes took their dinner. Her mom shepherded her toward the house.

"C'mon. Time to go in," she called to the boy as she strode toward the house. "Ow!" she yelped as she tripped and fell. "Sh– shoot," she amended as she pulled her foot from a gopher hole. "Oh, God." She gritted her teeth in pain. Ben ran up with the dogs as Taylor shifted anxiously from foot to foot, tears streaking sun-kissed cheeks.

"Are you okay?"

"Go get grandpa. I sprained my ankle. –Taylor, stay with me." She pulled her daughter into a hug. Her sprain was drama enough and she tried to stem any tears lest Taylor get more upset.

Ten minutes later Grace rode her dad's compact tractor to the house. The family doctor who lived nearby confirmed that it was a only a bad sprain. Pain and swelling would compel her to stay off the foot for several days.

She broke the news when her husband called. She had tickets to fly back tomorrow. A bad sprain, two kids (one still a toddler), luggage and kid gear made getting picked up at the gate a necessity. He wouldn't be back from Southern California until early evening on Sunday and Cho was spending the weekend out of town with Alyssa Chay.

"Jane can do it. He owes me for data I got him for a PI case."

Van Pelt gave an unladylike snort. "You think _that_ will force him to do a chore?"

Rigsby replied cheerfully, "Of course not. He'll do it because he's a sucker for our kids."


	18. Chapter 18 - Blindsided

**Chapter 18: Blindsided**

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Sunday Morning**

Half asleep, Lisbon slid out of bed, used the toilet and slipped back under the now-cold sheet. _Jane must've cranked up the AC_ , she thought muzzily. Heat radiated from Jane and she slid closer, enjoying the pure creature comfort of lying against the warm body of the man she loved. He shifted slightly but didn't wake. A twinge reminded her of Wednesday's egg retrieval.

 _Oh!_ A fertilized egg had been transferred back yesterday. With luck, that embryo would develop into a baby. _Jane's baby,_ _our_ _baby._ She drowsed contentedly, mulling over the long path that had led to this perfect moment.

Lisbon was a born tomboy. Fiercely competitive, she flatly rejected the idea that being a girl could matter more than talent and hard work. Like her RN mother and firefighter father, she wanted to leave the world a better a place. Tragedy and crushing responsibility clarified that goal: Teresa Lisbon would make her mark as a cop.

She didn't dream about the perfect boyfriend, a glorious wedding, or a fantastic house. Career drove her as soon as her brothers were grown, freeing her of responsibilities that never should have been hers. Career success came fast and she took satisfaction in the recognition and opportunities her hard work earned. There wasn't time for being lonely.

Lisbon's personal life subsisted on phone calls to her brothers, occasional group outings with cops or college friends, and the rare date/sometimes one-night stand. She gradually realized Bosco's interest went beyond that of boss and mentor and was appalled and ashamed to find she was tempted. She tackled work even harder resulting in Minelli's unprecedented job offer. Teresa Lisbon would become the youngest senior agent at the CBI, and one of the few women. She was pushing 30 before she'd admit to any unmet need and even _consider_ the possibility of a long term relationship. Any relationship obviously would have to be with a cop, someone who understood and accepted her job's demands. Frustratingly, her colleagues thought of her as a serious competitor (which she was) to the exclusion of seeing her as a woman – a Catch 22. Many cops still thought women should _marry a_ cop rather than be one.

Then Jane happened. A momentary annoyance and object of pity became an infuriating fixture in her life. Friction and competition gave way to respect, appreciation and, eventually, a singularly effective team. Accidental consultant evolved into colleague, friend, confidant, and partner. A man desperate in his quest and need overwhelmed her reservations. Their unlabeled, deliberately undefined relationship was more profound than most marriages. Rather than impossible, a decade of work and two years of exile proved her Patrick Jane was as essential to her as breathing. She finally accepted that her priorities were Patrick Jane and career, in that order. Years of telling herself she wasn't marriage material vanished.

Now she was determined to prove children and law enforcement could be combined as well: She wanted a baby so bad she could taste it. The disastrous, ignoble collapse of the CBI had swept away her life, career, friends, and Jane. A mere three years and she was on the cusp of getting it all back and more. No man took more joy in children and fatherhood than Patrick Jane. She ardently wanted him to have that again, to share that with him, and to provide their offspring the parents and home every child deserved. With Patrick Jane, she mustered the courage to reach for everything she wanted.

Jane shifted and yawned. His arm tightened around her and he lightly stroked her back. "You're thinking too loud again," he murmured, voice raspy with sleep.

"Mm. About good stuff. It all seems to be coming together."

"What?"

"Job. Friends. Our marriage. And," she swallowed, "a family," afraid voicing the thought might jinx it.

He kissed her cheek. "Things _are_ coming together. We _will_ have a family ... one way or another." He shared her hopes, but respected the reality of a 25% IVF pregnancy rate for a woman in her 40's. A bottle of prenatal vitamins had recently appeared in the medicine cabinet. His relentlessly practical, realistic Teresa was letting herself hope. He desperately wanted IVF to work, even more for her than himself (which was saying a great deal).

Thirty minutes later they shared a breakfast of waffles, syrup, bacon, fresh strawberries, orange juice, tea, and coffee so expensive he wouldn't tell her the price.

"Yesterday was fun but I have to get to those files today," she said around delicious bites. After the embryo transfer on Saturday they'd gone to a open-air jazz concert, had a casual dinner out, and watched Raiders of the Lost Ark at home, one of her retro favorites _. Will Jane be this sweet all nine months if I get pregnant? Some men are, I hear._ Then she wondered if that would be good or ... too much.

"' _Have_ to'?"

"What?" she asked, surfacing from her thoughts.

"You're not an employee and you _'have to'_ work on the weekend?" he asked skeptically.

Grudgingly, "Okay, _want_ to. I need to learn everything I can before I have an official position."

"All that diligence for the greater good of Hightower's CIB." _The administrivia could be cut by half with no loss._

"It will be _my_ CIB."

They started clearing the table. "No news from Hightower?" he probed.

She loaded the dishwasher, straightened and made a face. "Nope. They're sitting on the decision, scared she's too controversial."

"Politicians! Every word is focus-group tested. Perish the thought someone is bold and sincere," he grumbled. He slyly regarded her from the corner of his eye. "–If you insist on burying yourself in files, there's another woman who will be glad to see me."

She frowned then brightened. "Van Pelt."

"Her flight arrives at 4. With a sprained ankle she needs a hand with the kids. Rigs can't get here in time." He circled her waist with an arm. "You could come with," he purred.

Incredulously, "After two little kids have been on a plane for five-and-a-half hours? I'll pass."

She headed to her office and the files. Jane swam laps and read till it was time to leave for the airport.

 **Rigsby, Bakersfield, Sunday Morning**

Wayne Rigsby gave his team final instructions about writing up the four homicides they'd solved. A drug lord used the wildfires to mask murders done to even scores and eliminate competitors. The team's law enforcement and arson/fire fighting expertise enabled them to link and solve the cases with enough evidence for a solid case.

They'd finished up with local law enforcement just that morning. Rigsby told his agents to come in late on Monday since they'd worked ten days straight They split up between the two CIB SUV's for the six-hour drive to Sacramento. Rigsby hoped to meet his wife's flight but didn't worry since Jane would be there.

 **Cho, Sacramento, Sunday Afternoon**

Kimball Cho drove toward Sacramento after dropping Alyssa Chay off at his old San Francisco apartment, the one he had sublet to her. They'd combined hiking and rock-climbing with a stay at a decadently plush bed and breakfast. Most of Napa Valley was untouched by the earlier wildfires and bargains were to be had thanks to tourism being down. The B&B, winery tours and several truly excellent meals had made for a great weekend.

Alyssa was Elise's fun, spunky kid sister who eagerly embraced almost anything physical. That impression was evolving. Now very much a grown woman, she was an accomplished pilot, decorated war veteran, and audacious civil servant flying fire fighting and emergency service assignments. Alyssa was all fire and action; Elise, cool intellect.

 **Terminal A, Sacramento International Airport**

Jane strolled from the short-term parking garage into the airport, then followed the signs to the right concourse. His FBI ID got him past security, a piece of plastic more useful than the old CBI identification had been. Ironically, the FBI had greater name recognition than California's own investigative bureau. He supposed the new CIB would be anonymous for years.

Van Pelt's flight was delayed by thunderstorms so he killed time watching planes land and take off. He suppressed a shudder thinking about what would have happened if the FBI hadn't foiled the drone attacks.

 _At last!_ He stood and waved, catching sight of Van Pelt's fiery hair. She carried Taylor, her purse, and a small bag with Ben by her side. _Must have checked their luggage,_ he thought. She was limping badly and he quickly made it to her side.

"Grace! Hi, Taylor, Ben." He ruffled Ben's hair and took Taylor from Van Pelt's arms. They stepped aside from the stream of passengers. Ben babbled excitedly about the trip. Taylor started whining, over-tired and cranky, adding to the airport hubbub.

"Jane," she greeted and looked around in vain for her husband.

"Not here yet," he confirmed, raising his voice to be heard. They moved a few feet toward the terminal then Jane guided her to the wall. "Grace, you can't walk all that way with a bum ankle. I'll go find a wheel chair. Meanwhile," he hefted Taylor while gingerly patting her bottom, "your princess is a bit soggy."

She wearily passed a hand over her face. "Yeah, by now she needs a new diaper. I'll take her–" she reached for her daughter.

Jane didn't relinquish Taylor. "There's the restroom. Let's get you three over there. You take care of Taylor while I get that wheelchair."

"But–" Ben began, frowning at having to go into the women's room with his step-mom and sister, "can't I come with you, Patrick?"

Jane shepherded them to the restroom. "Nope. You have to guard your stuff while Grace changes Taylor," he said, deflecting the boy's disappointment. "Back soon." The door closed softly.

 **Sacramento International Airport**

A medium-sized DIY moving van parked by the upscale coffeehouse. A young man with an olive complexion and black hair and beard got out and entered the shop. A few minutes later he left with a grande latte. He watched as a jet roared overhead on its landing approach, then swung into the driver's seat and drove toward the airport.

The moving van took the road to the pick-up zone for arriving flights. It was busy as families returned from vacations a couple of weeks before the start of school. A few drivers scowled at the bulky moving van. When there was finally a gap in traffic, the driver gunned the engine and accelerated.

He crashed a hotel bus with a screech of metal, shoving it aside. The van jumped the curb and mowed down people on the sidewalk, sending bodies and luggage flying. The van rammed a concrete pillar and slammed to a halt, crushing the front end and shattering the windshield. The airbag stunned the driver. Everything froze in a moment of horror, the carnage reinforced by screams and blaring horns. People rushed to help the injured. Cops and airport security approached the crumpled van, guns drawn. The van exploded, raining fire and destruction for hundreds of feet. The road and second floor of the terminal shuddered and groaned then collapsed with an ear-splitting rumble, crushing everything below. Dust and deadly debris boiled out. Alarms and car horns shrieked. Shocked drivers crashed in chain-reaction accidents. Distant sirens wailed. Police, fire, and emergency vehicles converged. The _whup-whup_ of news copters added to the din and the scene was telecast to the world, real-time, in living color.

 **Terminal A, Sacramento International Airport**

Jane half-loped toward the terminal entrance. There were no obviously available wheelchairs. He stopped and asked at the security checkpoint. "Thank you," he nodded and continued walking with long strides.

A shock wave of noise, dust and debris slammed him. He tumbled, a leaf tossed in a storm. A waist-high planter stopped him dead, his head crashing against the concrete. Choking, blinding dust filled the concourse. Shocked eardrums registered no sound, silence amid chaos surreal.

 **Sacramento International Airport**

Sirens jarred Cho from his thoughts as he neared the city limits. He pulled over when flashing lights filled his rear view mirror. Several emergency vehicles raced past. He tried his cell only to find the service was overloaded. The FBI radio crackled to life just as he was reaching for it. The government SUV was a necessary perk for unit heads required to be available 24-7. Informed of the attack, he slapped the emergency flashing light on the roof and joined the race to the airport.

Police diverted traffic from the airport approach. His badge got him through, and he dodged backed up traffic and fender bender accidents, taking care to get out of the way of emergency vehicles. Road thoroughly clogged, he finally pulled over and stopped. Cho strapped on his gun and clipped his badge to his belt. He grabbed a walkie talkie from the glove compartment and jogged the last half mile, glad to be wearing jeans and sneakers. Finally in sight of the terminal he stopped dead and swore viciously, hands balled into fists. He ran the last several hundred feet to the gaggle of FBI agents surrounding SAC Mancini.

SacPD Chief Porter managed operations with brusque efficiency. A perimeter was established. Cops diverted traffic. First responders of all types helped the injured until paramedics and ambulances could arrive. Cops reversed traffic on the road _leaving_ the airport so emergency vehicles could get through. Fire fighters doused the fires started by the explosion and broken electrical wires. Fortunately there was little flammable in the terminal entrance.

The FBI would take charge when immediate rescue operations were over. Till then, Porter directed all operations. Director Hightower arrived and put CIB agents at Porter's disposal. Mancini also had his agents work under Porter's command. CIB and FBI agents were assigned to triage the dazed, milling civilians. The agents paired up to quickly rule out terrorists and send the uninjured on their way. Astonishingly, the parking garages were undamaged, allowing many to simply drive home.

The crushed front of Terminal A cut off access to the two concourses. Porter detailed the CIB agents to make their way around back. They'd use the stairs from the tarmac into the concourses. The control tower was already diverting as many flights as possible to nearby airports. Planes with too little fuel were allowed to land and taxi to Terminal B, out of the way of the disaster and chaos.

Rigsby's unit appeared at the airport twenty minutes later. They found Hightower and other CIB agents. Hightower sent them to Porter for orders. Rigsby lagged behind.

"Grace is in there! Can I–"

"Go around back and help there." Rigsby could help there while trying to find his wife.

Rigsby joined the others heading around the back. They climbed the stairs and breached the doors to get access. They identified themselves as law enforcement and began establishing order. Terrified passengers were crowded at the end of the concourses as far from the destruction as possible. Agents herded the passengers down the stairs and onto the tarmac. Groups were led around to the front, well past the damage. Those who had cars parked at airport garages were screened and allowed to leave. The rest were loaded onto commandeered shuttle buses to be taken to nearby hotels. He didn't see his family.

Rigsby and others headed toward the terminal entrance. The explosion and collapse had forced air and debris down the concourses with hurricane force. Debris and bodies littered the corridors for hundreds of feet with thick dust coating everything. People who'd been caught up in it began to stir. The agents went from person to person. Merchandise was grabbed from stores for makeshift bandages. One body lay in a pool of dust-covered blood from an arm that was almost severed by daggers of glass. An agent laid a jacket over him. Those who were mobile were guided back down the concourse where they could be taken to either ambulances or the shuttle buses. They radioed for paramedics and stretchers to help people too injured to move, doing their best to tune out moans and crying. Some were children. Rigsby searched for his family, hoping yet dreading finding them in this swath of destruction.

Rigsby made his way toward the entrance. A CIB agent knelt helping a dust-covered man who sat against the wall. Face twisted in pain, tears streamed down his face as he blinked furiously from the grit in his eyes. The tears left tracks through the dust. He coughed, vainly trying to clear his throat. Blood from a gash on his head dripped unnoticed onto his shoulder. The agent unscrewed a bottle of water that had been flung into the corridor. He tilted the man's head back and poured water to wash grit from the man's eyes.

"Jane!" Rigsby slid to a stop next to them. "Where's Grace?"

Jane continued blinking and the pain slowly abated. No response.

Rigsby shoved the agent aside and grabbed Jane's shoulders in a vice grip. "Where's Grace and the kids?" he shouted and shook Jane as though that would break loose an answer.

"Hey! Leave the guy alone!"

Jane shook his head slightly. Recognition bloomed. He put his hands over ears still ringing from the blast.

Rigsby took a breath and regained control. "Jane, where's Grace? Did you see them?"

Jane read his lips rather than heard. Too loud, "She's – they're okay. They're by gate, uh, 15. In the women's room."

"Thanks!" Rigsby squeezed Jane's shoulder and ran back toward the gates. He found the women's room closest to gate 15 and shouted her name. By then the corridor was empty. He barged into the women's room. Grace was braced in a corner. Her gun was trained on him.

"Wayne! Thank God."

He looked around frantically, "Where's–"

"–In there." She nodded toward the inner door where the toilet stalls were. "Ben, Taylor, come out," she sobbed in relief.

Rigsby pulled her and his kids into a crushing hug. "You're okay, everyone's okay?"

She nodded. "I heard an explosion. I can't move with this damned ankle. I thought they'd be safer here," looking at the kids. Taylor was blubbering. A few tears streaked down Ben's face.

Rigsby hugged them more gently and got up. He pulled his wife to her feet and picked up Taylor. Ben clung to his jacket.

"Jane! He went for a wheelchair and–"

"He's okay. He told me where you were. Someone's helping him."

She closed her eyes and exhaled, weak with relief. Gritting her teeth, "It was terrorism, wasn't it?" line between her eyebrows deep with anger.

Rigsby nodded. "Come on. Let's get out of here." He led his family to the stairs with Van Pelt leaning heavily on him. He carried her down the stairs while another agent took Ben in hand and carried Taylor.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Dinnertime**

Sick of paperwork, Lisbon started a chicken roasting and then took a quick shower. Dinner would be ready when Jane got back, though she was beginning to wonder what was taking him so long. She dried off, dressed, and brushed her towel-dried hair. It could air dry the rest of the way. She clicked the oven off; the chicken would finish roasting from residual heat. She sliced tomatoes for a salad and frowned as she heard yet another plane fly low overhead. Their house wasn't in a flight path for the airport. Now that she was paying attention she could hear distant sirens.

She turned on the TV and her eyes widened in shock as news copters provided a real-time bird's eye view. Cops, firemen and search-and-rescue dogs clambered over debris trying to locate people in the rubble. Emergency vehicles of every type crowded the scene. Crumpled and burned vehicles littered the road. Unknown numbers were unseen, buried under the collapsed upper road. Medevac copters landed on a nearby flat patch of land, were loaded with seriously injured patients, and quickly took off.

Reporters somberly described the scene, endlessly repeating the scant information available. A news crawl at the bottom of the screen continuously broadcast a telephone number and an internet website to check for information about the injured. The mayor's office gathered information from the area's hospitals on all the patients received from the airport. That information alternated with instructions on how to find out about rerouted flights.

An accurate tally of the dead wouldn't be known for days since people in transit were singularly hard to account for. Many families would wait with dwindling hope as someone failed to show up. Others would have grim confirmation as bodies were extracted from the wreckage. A few would get good news as survivors were found and freed from the destroyed building, roads, and vehicles. The waning light complicated rescue efforts and brilliant, portable stadium lights were being brought in to allow work to continue overnight. Flatbed trucks arrived with construction machinery to move and clear heavy debris.

She grabbed her bag, gun, and FBI ID, made sure the oven was off, and left. As she drove she tried calling Jane and Rigsby and Cho, knowing that getting a local call through was nigh impossible during a major emergency. Her active-FBI-on-hiatus ID got her past the police perimeter. She quickly found Hightower and Mancini. The immediate rescue work was winding down. Passengers and airport employees inside and outside the terminal had been sent to hospitals or released to go home, depending on injuries. Lisbon wouldn't be much use for moving and searching through the rubble though most of the CIB agents stayed to help the police. Those whose family members were injured were allowed to leave. Neither knew anything about Jane.

She happened upon Cho, who didn't have any information. He did mention he'd seen Rigsby, then left to help launch the FBI investigation.

Lisbon picked out the tall form of Wayne Rigsby in the crowd walking slowly with his family. She rushed over, desperate for information about Jane, panicked he wasn't with them.

"Teresa!" Van Pelt said, pulling her into a hug.

Lisbon twisted out of the hug and took her shoulders. "What about Jane? Did you see him? Is he – is–"

"He's okay," Rigsby broke in. "He got banged up but he's okay."

"Where is he?"

Abashed at having left an injured friend, "I'm not sure. A CIB agent helped him while I looked for Grace."

Anger flared which Lisbon squelched. Rigs knew Jane wasn't badly hurt. It was _normal_ he'd be desperate to find his family. Controlling her roiling anxiety, "I need to check that website for which hospital they took him to."

"Lisbon!" Van Pelt called sharply and got her attention. "I can look it up on my tablet. There's a Starbucks near here with wi-fi."

Lisbon looked around, confirming there was nothing she could do that wasn't already being done. She shook away the fog of worry. Glancing at Taylor, "Take Jane's Citroen. He got your extra kids' car seat coming here. I've got the SUV."

Rigsby noticed a team member in the crowd and tossed him the keys to the CIB SUV. That way his team could get home. "Let's go." Jane's Citroen was easy to spot in the garage.

Ten minutes later they sat in the Starbucks, shaky, beginning to decompress. Van Pelt checked the website, entered Jane's address and quickly found the hospital to which Jane had been taken. Lisbon got coffee and tea to go. While they waited a counter server eyed Rigsby and hesitantly asked, "You're with the cops ... aren't you?" glancing at the badge clipped to his waist.

"Yeah?"

"I dunno if it means anything. A guy got a grande latte just before the explosion. I only mention it 'cause he had a moving van." He glanced at the large screen TV where every channel was covering the attack.

The three adults moved closer. Lisbon, crisply, "Description?"

The server's face wrinkled indecisively, "I, uh, don't wanna get anyone in trouble, don't wanna stereotype."

"He won't be in trouble if he had nothing to do with it."

"Young, maybe mid-20's. White but, y'know, kinda dark complexion. Brown eyes, black hair and black beard trimmed short."

Van Pelt glanced around. "Is that camera hooked up, actually working?" she pointed to a corner facing customers in line at the counter.

He nodded. "This area's sketchy at night."

"Let me talk to the manager. The FBI will want the recording."

The manager agreed to preserve the recordings until the FBI stopped by. It was sheer luck. The manager hadn't seen the customer with the van. Lisbon thanked the server again. Van Pelt emailed Cho the information before they left.

Lisbon would let them know about Jane once she knew anything. She'd email Van Pelt since the phones would be overloaded for hours.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Sunday Evening**

Jane trudged in and sank down on the couch with a sigh. Lisbon locked the door and sat next to him. Every surgical team busy with serious crushing, laceration, and head trauma cases and it took hours before Jane's minor injuries were treated. His scalp wound required a few stitches – messy, but not serious. Antibiotic eye drops and an eye-safe topical anesthetic helped with the corneal scratches. Most serious was a mild concussion which was diagnosed by a blood test. Barring new symptoms, the concussion required only rest to heal. The myriad bruises and aches would vanish within a week.

Eyes closed, head back, he sought and held her hand for the connection and comfort. She eventually rose and prepared coffee and tea, discarding the roast chicken. She heated frozen chicken quesadillas and finished the salad. They ate in the living room.

They watched the news for several minutes then clicked it off. Having been at the airport they knew more than most of the reporters. Al Qaeda had claimed responsibility via an email, though curiously it too several hours to show up on its main website. Solid information about the perpetrator would require hard, dogged work by dozens of FBI agents in several different states. There were already 26 confirmed dead.

Lisbon coaxed Jane to shower off the dust before turning in. She made him promise to stay home and rest for at least Monday. They fell asleep nestled together, unutterably grateful both were alive.


	19. Chapter 19 - Aftermath

**Chapter 19: Aftermath**

 **FBI, Sacramento, Sunday Night**

After Porter had rescue operations at the airport in hand Mancini and Cho left to launch the FBI investigation. They set up in the large conference room on Cho's floor.

Mancini ended his call. "Abbott and Homeland are in the loop. They'll alert US law enforcement and airports to possible attacks. We need to-" He broke off as his assistant poked his head into the room. "What?"

"I came soon as I heard. What do you want me to do?"

"Contact as many of our SA's as you can. I need teams for canvassing, three or four now, everyone available on Monday morning."

He nodded. "The press is outside. What should–"

"No comment at this time." Mancini snapped his fingers, "Except, have Johnson set up a tip hotline for this attack. Give that number to the press."

"Um, is there a handout for the canvassing?"

"Cho and I are putting something together. –And arrange a briefing for all available agents, Monday first thing."

On it." He left.

Mancini dropped into a chair with a weary sigh. "Cho, what do we know?"

"A man drove a rented moving van loaded with explosives to the Terminal A arrivals area. He jumped the curb, mowed down pedestrians, and crashed. It detonated at 3:56 p.m."

"After a delay so people would approach and get killed."

"Yeah. Classic terrorist MO. Witnesses say the van was an off-brand, 'Moving It' or something similar. Al Qaeda's main website claimed responsibility three hours later at 7 p.m. local time. This is the only US terrorist attack today."

"Explosives and a delayed detonation mean money, preparations and planning. Any forewarnings? Radical web sites, social media? Terrorist chatter?"

"Nothing since last week's foiled drone attack."

"For all of California, all our offices?"

"Nothing," Cho confirmed. "Wylie'll be here shortly. I'll have him double-check the databases and intelligence agencies." The rest of Cho's team was helping at the airport. They'd be reassigned to canvassing.

"What else?"

"We don't _know_ Al Qaeda is responsible. They want publicity even if they weren't involved."

" _Tentative_ radical Islamic attack then. Did the survivors give us anything?"

"Only that odd name on the van."

"Accomplices?"

Cho shook his head. "The agents said no one they screened seemed suspicious." He frowned. "We might have missed someone in the chaos. An accomplice wasn't _needed_ for the attack but might want to be there," he allowed.

Mancini exhaled sharply in disgust. With little to go on they'd have to do a broad sweep working outward from the airport. A weak shotgun approach would involve huge effort with little chance of success. "I'll be back in a minute." He rose, heading toward the men's room for both a physical and mental break.

Cho tiredly got more coffee then checked his email. Friends and family knew better than to clog his computer with pointless commiserating, but he hoped for news about the Rigsby's and Jane. Van Pelt's email put concerns about his friends to rest and, unexpectedly, provided a break: A Starbucks employee served a customer who drove a moving van near the airport just before the attack. The CCTV might give them a photo. Cho radioed Ojara to interview the server and get the video. Time was their enemy: Memories fade, recordings get overwritten, and accomplices flee.

Mancini returned when Cho was on the radio with Ojara. "Something?"

"A lead and a photo. Ojara will be here in a few minutes."

Ojara brought the video and the welcome news that the employee noticed the van had an odd name. Fifteen minutes later Wylie had printed copies of the cleaned-up grainy image to go with Cho's handout. Gas stations, convenience stores, restaurants, hotels, mosques and community centers would be checked in an ever-widening circle around airport ground zero. They were hampered until Monday, when managers and the more knowledgeable employees would be available. Meanwhile, tips started coming in on the FBI hotline, each of which would have to be run down. Wylie tried using facial recognition software to search criminal databases. When that was a bust he returned to searching government databases for clues they'd missed about the attack.

Mancini left at midnight. Cho and Wylie stayed.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Monday**

"No!" Lisbon sat bolt upright from troubled sleep. She frantically searched till, _Thank God!,_ she felt Jane next to her. Alive. Whole. Jane stirred but didn't wake. She slumped and breathed deeply. _Only a nightmare._ She hadn't seen yesterday's explosion but it dredged up memories of Malibu. She lay back and eventually returned to uneasy sleep.

Jane woke slowly, mind fuzzy and sluggish. His head throbbed with each heartbeat and everything ached. _There was an explosion,_ he slowly blinked and winced in pain. _Damn._ He gingerly rolled from bed and felt his way to the bathroom with closed eyes. He found the small bottles and sighed in relief when cool eye drops quenched the pain. Jane relieved himself and washed his hands, startling at the mosaic of bruises, scrapes and cuts reflected in the mirror.

He closed his eyes and was back in the concourse. _Chaos and debris. A body lay in a pool of red, the gap between severed arm and body viscerally_ _wrong_ _. Flies buzz and lap at the blood. Broken bodies try to stand. Faces twist with pain. A gaudy nylon jacket covers a still lump. A small hand pokes out from underneath._ Jane gulped. _Grace and the kids were there. But, but Teresa said they're okay._ He sank onto the closed toilet seat, weak with gratitude. Jane forced the images away and dressed in the dark to avoid waking Lisbon. The fine, soft cloth of dress pants and shirt slipped easily over his battered body. (He'd never understood the appeal of rough denim jeans and cotton tees.)

Jane limped to the kitchen and gratefully focused on the ritual of making tea. There was zero chance of getting back to sleep, sleep which would open the door to nightmares. He settled on the couch and watched the rescue coverage with the TV volume turned low.

Dawn was near when Lisbon woke again. She sleepily slid her arm over only to find the space cold and empty. Fear flared until her mind caught up. _He's up, that's all._ His damp hand towel in the bathroom was reassurance enough to finish her morning routine.

Jane looked up when Lisbon came in, dressed but barefoot. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep anymore," she replied. The 'why' was obvious. Her hand slid down his arm in a caress and she looked him over intently, "You doing all right?"

"Sure."

 _Yeah sure._ She nodded and continued to the kitchen.

Lisbon brought coffee and toast into the living room and settled close by his side. Jane seemed calm and at ease despite being beat up. She discounted that. Being a casualty in an explosion was traumatic no matter how composed someone appeared. She'd accepted the dangers of being a cop long ago but had never managed it where Jane was concerned. She swallowed roughly. _A few hundred feet were all that saved him._

He reached for his tea and glanced her way. "You're staring. Relax, it's okay."

"Huh," she responded, not agreeing but not quite disagreeing. She bit her lip. "You should talk about it, get it out."

"It was over before anything registered. I was mainly worried about the Rigsby's."

"Talk anyhow."

"Meh." He resumed watching the TV.

She frowned. _Maybe later._

Coverage shifted to a crowd on a city street, catching her attention. She raised the volume. _"... are gathered in front of this mosque as rumors circulate the driver was Muslim. No mosque officials have spoken but we'll bring you the news as soon as there's a statement. Back to you, Tracy." "Thanks, Kevin. Rescue efforts–"_

Lisbon angrily muted the TV and rose to get her phone. "That's a riot waiting to happen! Where's SacPD?" Jane nodded; anger was easy to see in the restless crowd. She failed to reach Police Chief Porter, Hightower, or Mancini. Her second call to the CIB was forwarded to LaRoche.

"LaRoche, it's Lisbon. There's an angry mob in front of the big mosque on 12th street. Who's handling crowd control?" she demanded. The sense of individual responsibility and restraint vanished in mobs. Deaths, injuries, arson, and widespread destruction would be the bitter result if rioting broke out.

"SacPD–"

"–Isn't there, JJ!" she interrupted.

Ponderously, "Every available officer is helping with rescue operations. I am on my way there myself."

LaRoche's flat, measured speech broke through her irritation. She took a breath and forced herself to be professional. "I apologize, Agent." Intensely, "TV coverage shows an angry crowd at that mosque and I bet other mosques. We need law enforcement there."

Dryly, "The governor required Chief Porter and Director Hightower's presence to help manage the ... politics. Agent Lisbon," he said deliberately, "I officially request your help in this emergency."

"I'm not–"

Implacable, "–You are an FBI agent and CIB consultant and I need your help organizing crowd control. How soon will you be here?"

 _Damn!_ Lisbon glanced at Jane, who mouthed, _Go._ She frowned then decided. "Fifteen minutes. You'll have to publicly give me the authority." He could finesse any legal issues later.

"Third floor meeting room." The connection was cut.

She pulled on her ankle boots, kissed Jane's cheek and grabbed gun, ID's, and bag. She paused halfway out the door. Sternly, " _You_ stay here and rest." She left.

 **12** **th** **Street Mosque, Monday, Daybreak**

Five men in suits elbowed through the crowd to the front of the 12th street mosque. Street and landscaping lights lit the scene. The tallest man mounted a low wall and faced the crowd. The others spread out behind him.

He spoke over the noise with a bullhorn, "I'm Agent Rigsby with the California Investigative Bureau." Something shiny flashed in his hand – a badge? "Stay calm. Please just go home." The noise swelled and the crowd pushed forward a few feet. His back-up men eyed the crowd warily while holding their ground. Their Kevlar vests and tear gas were uncertain protection against dozens; bullets were the last thing they wanted to use. "There is **no** evidence anyone from this mosque was involved."

"How do you know?" several shouted.

"The FBI says so." The phone overload had eased and Rigsby reached Cho on the way over.

"–Coverup." "–We don't believe you!" "How do they–"

"The driver is dead. _**Go home**_ and let the FBI investigate. We don't want more innocent victims."

The crowd shifted uneasily. The decorative walls flanking the entrance kept them from going around the law enforcement men. The agent closest said something to Rigsby and their tension eased as a CIB rapid response team rolled up. The dozen-strong, uniformed, armored team joined Rigsby's men, but avoided aggressive tactics. Standoff. Forty-five minutes later the crowd melted away with the rising sun.

 **Sacramento FBI, Monday, Daybreak**

Cho woke at dawn, showered in the gym, and dressed from his away bag. He itched to get to the airport, hoping for more leads. They desperately needed the van's license plate or VIN to locate when, where and _by whom_ it had been rented. The photo from the Starbucks CCTV recording was promising but that might not be the terrorist. With luck, the mangled van would tell them the type of explosives, type of detonator, debris from the truck cab, DNA, and other clues to identify the terrorist and reveal any links to others.

Cho parked with law enforcement vehicles in a roped-off area. Emergency teams had worked through the night searching for survivors, unavoidably disturbing and contaminating the scene. As soon as an area was cleared, an FBI CSI team moved in and staked out the area as part of a grid. Much like an archaeological dig, every square yard was marked off with tape, numbered, and searched for evidence. They had finished with peripheral areas unaffected by rescue operations.

He stood on a small rise, waiting for daylight. Fists clenched, he controlled his rage at the scene before him. They had just foiled a larger, more subtle attack. _How the_ _hell_ _did we miss this?_ This was his first failure and it hadn't even been a year.

"Cho!"

He turned sharply and saw a lean, fit woman in uniform and boots. "Agent Wade?"

She extended her hand. "Hightower has us helping. My team just got redeployed to protect a mosque." She shook his hand briskly, then faced the terminal waiting for her team to gather.

"Still heading a tac team?"

"CIB Rapid Response Team 1." She eyed him appreciatively. "I heard you weathered the Red John and Blake mess. Now you're a Fed?"

He nodded. "Regional counter-terrorism task force, based in Sacramento." He took a deep breath and refocused on the ruined terminal. Grimly, "This shouldn't have happened." He nodded, "Gotta go."

"See you around." She smiled faintly and jogged off to join her team in the CIB van for their next assignment.

Cho headed over to talk to the FBI's CSI leader.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home**

Jane passively watched the disaster coverage after Lisbon left. It was late morning when he roused from the grisly, mesmerizing spectacle. He found his cell phone which had miraculously survived the explosion. He steeled himself and called.

"Hel-lo, Grasshopper."

"Jane! How are you? God, it's good to hear your voice."

"Never better, Grace, never better. You and the kids are all right?"

Calmer, "The gate areas weren't affected. We were in the restroom."

"Ben and Taylor?"

"They were only scared."

Jane silently exhaled a long sigh of relief. "How about I come by and bring lunch?"

"You don't have to–"

"–I _want_ to. Ben and Taylor need to see everything's okay so they won't forever link me to a scary experience."

"Oh." Dubious, "I thought you had a concussion. What's Lisbon say?"

"She's not here. So, forty minutes?"

Puckishly, "Aren't you forgetting something? I have your car."

He blinked. _Missed that one._ Covering smoothly, "I'll take a taxi. Then I can drive my car back."

"Well–"

"See you in forty." He was weak with relief. _They're really okay._

 **Van Pelt-Rigsby Home**

Van Pelt answered the door and Jane swept in. He handed her three loaded take-out bags and knelt to hug Ben as the youngster ran up. Taylor clung shyly to her pants, peeking at him from the safety of her mother's leg.

"C'mon, sweetheart," Jane coaxed the toddler. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

Taylor cautiously edged toward Jane. Van Pelt put the food on the kitchen counter. She returned to the foyer where Jane was still hugging both kids tightly. _Huh. Looks like my kids aren't the only ones needing reassurance._

Jane cleared his throat and stood with a hint of sheepishness. He shepherded everyone into the kitchen. "I stopped at the sandwich shop you like." Unloading the food, "Mac 'n cheese for the kids. Fries – still hot. Chicken soup and a turkey-on-wheat for you. Cookies and cheesecake for dessert. –That's okay, right?" he paused, glancing at her six-months-pregnant-with-twins belly.

She grinned. "Perfect. How'd _you_ know when I don't even know what I want?" she grumbled good naturedly.

Jane helped her set the table and lifted Taylor into her highchair with a grunt. Van Pelt passed out the food as Jane made tea from the kettle she'd put on. They traded desultory small talk over lunch, avoiding discussion of the attack until the kids were playing in the other room. Van Pelt had locked out TV reception so the kids wouldn't stumble on the airport coverage.

"Rigs is at work?"

"They need everyone they can get. He went back after the kids were in bed and slept at the CIB. I'd be there except–"

Jane shook his head. Gently, "– Of course you had to stay with Ben and Taylor, even aside from your sprained ankle and being pretty far along." He sipped his tea, "When will you start maternity leave?"

She puffed out her cheeks in frustration. "I _wanted_ to wait till late third trimester, but having twins is like being a couple of months further along. Sometime in the next month I guess."

He just nodded.

"Cho told Wayne the FBI stopped an attack a week ago. I can't believe there was another so soon. There wasn't any warning something was up?"

Flatly, "No warning."

"Just my luck. The flights were full up last weekend, which turns out was just as well with that planned attack. Then I end up flying home to this!" Horror and guilt flickered over Jane's face then was gone. _What?_ She blinked, not sure what she'd seen.

"Yeah. All's well and all that." He took a large sip of tea.

Jane left a few hours later after doing tricks and playing with Ben and Taylor. He overrode Van Pelt's concerns about driving with a concussion.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Monday Night**

It was dark when Lisbon closed the door and dropped her things on the foyer table. Tiredly, "I'm home. –Jane?"

"In here," his voice emanated from the living room.

Lisbon made her way through the dark house and paused in the living room doorway. Jane slouched against the couch back, one sock-clad foot propped on the coffee table. The only light in the room, the TV, bathed his face in images of death and destruction. She clicked on a lamp. Softly, "Tell me you didn't watch this all day."

"I didn't watch this all day." Jane glanced up at her. "I had take out with Grace and the kids. There's some for you in the fridge."

 _That explains how his car got back._ "Thanks, I'm starved. I had to beg and cajole every PD and sheriff's office within a hundred miles for help."

Warmly, "Which is paying off. No riots."

Pessimistically, " _Yet_." Still caught up in her day's efforts, "The crowd we saw wasn't the only tinderbox. Several mosques, community centers, and neighborhoods with large Muslim concentrations have had threats. Fortunately nothing worse than scuffles and yelling so far. I'm concerned about tonight." Her stomach growled. "–I'll be back in a minute." She warmed up a meatball sub then frowned when she tossed the wrapper. _There's no take out trash from lunch. What doesn't he_ get _about resting after a concussion? Damn, stubborn..._ She sighed and let it go.

She glared but didn't say anything when she returned with her dinner tray. Reading her perfectly, Jane had the grace to look guilty. He patted the couch. After a second, she unbent and sat next to him, putting the tray on her knees. She eagerly tucked into the food.

After a few minutes, he said plaintively over the murmur of the TV, "You're sure we can't live in a safe out-of-the-way town, say, in New Zealand?" He avoided her gaze.

She chewed and swallowed before answering. Of course the subtext was, 'Even after I was blown up in a terrorist attack?' But the logic didn't hold any better than it did the last time they talked. Patiently, "We both feel Sacramento is home. I'm a cop and want to make _my home, my country_ safer." Softly, "Patrick, we talked about this. Terrorism happens everywhere."

"Hmm," he acknowledged glumly.

She ate more slowly now that the most urgent hunger pangs were blunted.

"How many did Red John kill, Lisbon?" Jane asked out of the blue.

She blinked at the non-sequitur. _What?_ She answered the rhetorical question, an answer he knew better than she did. "At least 37. Likely there were others without the smiley face, and still more done by his followers." She swallowed and waited.

"Thirty-seven over 15 years." Sadly, "So far they've recovered 73 bodies at the airport. After one attack."

She leaned forward and put her tray on the coffee table.

"C'mere." He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her closer when she leaned back. His hand lay lightly on her stomach.

Her glance was a mix of worry and care. "Hey. What's going on, what're you thinking?"

He let her question hang.

The TV droned on in the background. "...In other news, Senator Peter Wentworth, the influential head of the Armed Services Committee, has the support of almost three dozen senators opposing the Administration's interventionist foreign strategy. Wentworth is pressuring the President to reduce the US foreign presence in the Middle East..." Jane clicked off the TV.

"A few months ago you worried I was just going along, didn't have anything I was committed to." He bit his lower lip, then continued. "I want to work counter terrorism on Cho's team. –And CIB cases too of course."

She frowned and looked hard at him. "Just last week you said you _didn't_ want CT." Gently, "Patrick, you were in an explosion. Maybe you should let that settle down a bit befo–"

"–That's not why. I won't change my mind."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowed trying to understand. "Then why?"

He took a breath and licked his lips. "Sacramento's our home and we're working to start a family." His hand lovingly brushed her abdomen. "How can I not do everything possible to protect you, protect any child we may have? Especially–" his voice broke, "after the first time?"

She feared where this was going. "That doesn't make sense. There's no way to protect against every danger and a lot of them are far more likely. Car accidents, natural disasters, falling off a ladder." She bit her lip, "You can't protect our child – or me! – from everything." Guilt had nearly destroyed him after his family's murder. The enormous guilt that would result from the deaths caused by successful attacks hung between them, unspoken but very much there. The thought terrified her.

He tightened his embrace. "Horrible things happen all the time. Everyone thinks, 'If he only hadn't smoked, or didn't drink and drive, or exercised more, or whatever.' Do you know why?"

She frowned, again not following his thought and faintly repelled by the idea. Cautiously, "I don't like it but, yeah, people react that way. What does that have to–"

Interrupting, "–It's about control. Being responsible is less frightening than being powerless, especially in horrible situations. You feel better thinking you could stop bad things from happening. _You_ don't drink and drive. _You're_ careful on ladders. _You_ clear your yard of brush, or take shelter during a hurricane or whatever."

 _My God, was feeling guilty for Red John's murders somehow easier than feeling powerless, than feeling nothing he did could keep it from happening again?_ It nauseated her to imagine anything could be worth that. Weakly, "There are things no one can control."

He nodded. "Sure. I don't worry about an asteroid strike because there is literally nothing I could do about it." He took a deep breath. "Teresa, don't you see terrorism is the worst case? Individuals can't protect against terrorism. But I can help thwart attacks with the FBI."

She gritted her teeth and put it out there, "Not if working CT destroys you."

He smiled painfully, "Cho nailed it. It'd be bad if people die because I – the team – couldn't stop an attack. It'd be worse if I didn't even try."

Her gaze mirrored his pain, "I'm afraid of this and it – it's not necessary." She shook her head, "You'd take on CT when the chance of anyone you know getting hurt is–"

"–It just happened!" he snapped. He closed his eyes and looked away, ashamed of losing his temper. Whispering, "I– Grace changed her flight and avoided last week's threat only to come home to this."

"A fluke! Not your responsibility."

Mouth open to reply he said nothing. After a moment he licked his lips and swallowed audibly. He wouldn't face her.

"Wait. You said, 'I.'" Her stare burned a hole through him. " _You knew there was a threat last week and kept them from flying_!" Her scowl deepened. "I can't believe you did that. People die in panics before an attac–"

"–Teresa, give me some credit! I didn't _tell_ anyone."

Her tension slowly eased. "That's still against the FBI ru–"

He shook his head in irritation. "-Rules be damned. I didn't endanger anyone, I just booked the open seats on flights they might have taken."

Mollified but unhappy, "Still–"

Intensely, "If I can protect my family and friends without hurting others, I will do it every time. I don't give a damn about the rules." He took a few deep breaths and continued lower key. "I kept them from flying during one threat..."

"So they flew in yesterday when there was an attack."

He nodded and leaned his head back against the couch, exhausted.

Lisbon consciously relaxed her shoulders and breathed deeply to calm herself. She didn't like any of this, but then terrorism was a fact of modern life. A week ago she'd made the opposite argument. _Be careful what you wish for..._ She turned her head slightly. Her husband, her battered and exhausted husband and friend and partner had put himself through hell thinking about this.

She stirred. "C'mon, Jane. We're both dead tired. Let's go to bed."

They plodded to their bedroom and completed their nighttime routines. The bed was comfortable, the sheets smooth and pleasantly cool, the dark a deep and welcoming black velvet. An hour later Lisbon turned restlessly, too overwrought to sleep. Jane slid his hand over and laced fingers with hers. She squeezed gently, troubled but grateful their problems were infinitely easier than they had been in the past.

Jane swallowed roughly then spoke into the soft darkness, voice quiet with an underlying rasp. "My eyes hurt when I came to. Someone helped wash the grit out with water. I was terrified when I realized what happened. The guy led me back toward the gate. Bodies lay in pooled blood, and not just adults. A child was dead, covered but you could tell. Bloody, bruised ... some with broken arms or legs. Rigsby came by and I told him where they were. _But I didn't know if they stayed back there!_ Every step I was afraid I'd see Grace or Ben or Taylor dead in the wreckage. God, I was so afraid I'd set Rigs up for the hell I lived after, after..." He stopped.

Whispering, "They're all right. You're all right." She rolled onto her side and kissed his cheek, then brushed aside the wet of tears. She stroked his head and caressed him, mindful of bruises and scrapes and cuts.

She thought he was asleep when he added, "I only really _felt_ better when I saw them today. I am so grateful..." Sleep finally claimed him. Lisbon kissed him once more and lay back. There was more she wanted to know, more they had to hash out. For now, they were okay. She finally drifted off.


	20. Chapter 20 - The Hunt

**Chapter 20: The Hunt**

 **FBI, Sacramento, Tuesday - Attack + 2**

' _How the_ _hell_ _did this happen?!'_

Mancini's query and challenge and lash from Monday weighed heavily as the agents assembled. The destroyed airport terminal was on the 7' x 4' display at the front.

Cho walked to the lectern. He blinked in surprise at Jane's presence, then focused on the briefing.

"Day two and here's what we've got." _Click._ "This man stopped at a Starbucks near Sacramento International driving a 'Move It' van at 3:41 p.m. on Sunday. The attack occurred at 3:56 p.m. using a van witnesses say had the Move It logo. Al Qaeda's web site claimed responsibility for the attack three hours later. FBI teams have checked the groups and individuals being monitored as potential terrorists, and have canvassing outward from the airport. So far, no California connections with the attacker have been found. A clerk at a Sleepy Inn Motel south of Sacramento off I-5, remembered renting the Starbucks unsub a room on Saturday night. Promising, but still no ID."

A hand raised. "No name from the motel registry or credit card?"

Dryly, "The name used, 'John Smith,' is assumed to be an alias. He drove a car, not a van, to the motel." _Click._ "This is what's left of the van." The photo showed the vehicle amid the wreckage. No logo could be made out on the burnt remains. Somehow the mangled van was more shocking, more relatable than the zoomed out image of the airport.

Another agent asked, "VIN? Plate number? Company records?"

"Forensics has the evidence laid out in a hangar. My team will examine it as soon as this briefing's over. There are over two-hundred Move It franchises in the Western states and the company can't help us without knowing the specific van." He continued with what they _did_ know. "Every FBI office in California and adjacent states has been contacted. None had information suggesting an imminent attack by any potential terrorist group or individual, which confirms our initial information. NSA," he paused to glance at a note Mancini's admin handed him, "didn't pick up increased chatter, nothing on social media or web sites we monitor. So far, this guy came out of nowhere with no connections to anyone."

Jane's voice effortlessly carried, "Except he likely had to have help with the explosives or detonation device or fake ID."

Vega jumped in. "There was a terrorist attempt in Chicago yesterday and an attack in Miami early today. Any connection?"

Cho nodded, glad she'd brought it up. "Yesterday was a crude copycat attempt by a known self-radicalized ISIS sympathizer. The other, mass shooting was done by a man with a history of mental problems who'd made threats on social media. Neither appears to be connected to ours." He paused and picked up a printout. "We need more facts before we can construct a scenario and hunt for accomplices.

"Rodriguez, Durand, your teams continue tracking where he came from. The motel stay suggests he wasn't local. Check video from every gas station, convenience store, and anywhere else you think worthwhile, traveling south on I-5 and parallel routes.

"Krause, your team continues trying to find the car from the motel.

"Robertson, reach out to the rest of US FBI offices and links to Europe for any attacks planned for the US similar to this one. Is Al Qaeda's claim real or a misdirect?

"Stevens, work with Johnson's team to follow up tips from the hot line.

"My team will check out what Forensics got and follow up any leads." Cho left the lectern and took a step toward the agents. Intensely, "The terrorist came from somewhere. He interacted with someone. He likely had help. We didn't prevent the attack but we're sure as hell going to find the people and organizations responsible. Get on it."

Noise swelled as the agents rose and started to leave. Cho walked toward his team which had gathered by Jane's couch. An agent intercepted him before he got there.

"Assignment for my team?"

"Sorry, Singh." Cho handed him the note. "Check with Mancini's admin. Your team's reassigned to investigate a CIA agent killed in a car crash on Sunday."

The SA's eyebrows clenched in confusion. "We're investigating an ordinary _car crash?_ "

"Not ordinary. The agent had no reason to be in this area. And there was a sniper rifle in the trunk." The man nodded and left.

It was impossible to miss Jane's battered appearance. Cho's team wordlessly nudged Wylie forward to ask why. Jane tersely acknowledged being tossed around by the explosion and, no, he wasn't hurt and no one he knew was hurt. Full stop. The group nodded and left it alone when Cho walked up. Jane rose stiffly and followed the team to parking for an FBI van.

 **Airport**

Hassan drove, Cho rode shotgun. After a glance at Jane Cho had Hassan park by the hangar instead of the distant area designated for official vehicles. Cho showed his ID and the guard let the team enter. They paused inside the door of the vast, shadowy space enclosed by metal beams, walls, and corrugated roofing. The guard flipped a bank of switches and the hanger flooded with light. He returned to his post outside.

A whiteboard near the door showed the layout. Each square corresponded to the grid that Forensics laid out at the scene, just much reduced in size and with space to walk between the rows. Squares in which no evidence had been found were 'x'd out. Different ink colors indicated the type of evidence found at each location. The debris field had much in common with NTSB plane crash investigations. The sheer expanse – nearly an acre – was daunting. Contrary to hazy popular notions, explosions don't vaporize objects so much as shatter and fragment them, except for destruction by an accompanying fire.

"We'll take a look at the van. Then we split up and each take a section." Cho assigned an area for each agent to check. "Look for anything that might help ID the perp, accomplices, methods, or organization." He turned to the consultant. "Jane, do whatever you want only," he shoved nitrile goves into Jane's hand, "wear these before touching anything."

They gathered around the crumpled, blackened van. Torn sheet metal clung to the frame. The paint was burnt beyond identification and the license plates had been ripped away by the blast. The van was crushed two ways – the front from crashing the concrete pillar, and the roof from the collapsed roadway above. All glass had shattered and disappeared, along with any decals. Ojara and Muhammad illuminated the crushed cab with flashlights, revealing a chaos of shredded foam, torn metal and shattered plastic. They ignored the red splashes and burnt chunks of ... whatever.

"I'll have Forensics pry up the roof when they're done with the outside," Cho said as they stood back, disappointed at getting so little from the van.

Jane stepped forward. "Have them dig that out." He pointed through the driver's window frame to a 1" metal disk melted into what remained of the plastic dashboard. The agents stepped closer and peered.

Muhammad and Hassan exchanged glances. Muhammad ventured, "It looks like a religious medallion. They're stamped with quotations from the Quran. Lots of Muslim men carry them in the Middle East."

Wylie frowned. "I thought jewelry is haram for Muslim men?" he asked uncertainly.

She rewarded him with a rare smile for knowing a little about her part of the world. "Bling, protective charms and anything associated with forbidden lifestyles are haram. Religious medallions are okay."

Jane nodded thoughtfully.

"Gather by the door in an hour," Cho directed and strode toward his section.

An hour later the five agents stood by the door. Cho waited a few minutes for Jane who arrived last then asked, "What've we got? Ojara, you start."

Ojara led them to a blood-covered shoe.

"Significance?" Cho asked.

"It's the type of cheap shoes worn widely in the Middle East by the poor." Muhammad and Hassan nodded in agreement. "It might be from the attacker."

Dryly, "There's plenty of blood in the van for matching. And if you're right–" Cho let it hang.

Ojara finished, "–It suggests the terrorist was from the Middle East, not home-grown."

Vega played devil's advocate. "Or maybe he's an immigrant who wears them here."

Hassan and Muhammad shook their heads. Muhhamad explained, "No one wears these by choice. Too associated with being poor. Powerless." She shrugged and added with a half-grin, "Besides, they're uncomfortable and ugly as sin."

"Anything else?"

Ojara walked on and swept his hand to include several squares. Grimacing, "Pieces of a license plate." The plate had been reduced to indecipherable fragments. "Useless unless Forensics reassembles them. And that assumes there are enough pieces, and that they're from the van. That's it."

Cho turned to the agent who'd looked over the next section. "Hassan?"

"Just a Starbucks cup," he pointed. Ironically, the cup was largely intact, the explosion having just blown the featherweight cup around. Hassan explained, "We'll get DNA from the van. If the cup matches, that ups the odds that our Starbucks unsub photo is the perp. That's all I found."

"Wylie?"

The group followed until Wylie stopped and pointed to a hunk of metal. "This is from the type of air brake assembly used in trucks and buses. It's got a VIN."

Hassan, perplexed, "How do we know it's from the van? Some buses were blown up too."

Wylie grinned and held up his smart phone. "I checked the VIN codes: Van. I called and the manufacturer doesn't even make buses."

Cho nodded appreciatively. "This'll tell us the Move It rental location. That should give us credit card information and maybe a photo. Anything else?" Wylie shook his head.

"Muhammad?"

Muhammad showed them a tangle of wires and electrical components. With a sigh, "This is probably the detonator. Explosives experts might be able to link it to other attacks or terrorists who make IED's. That's it."

Cho glanced to his fifth agent. Vega led them to a 12" x 10" x 2" metal box, dented and scorched, but intact and latched. Uncertainly, "I don't know what's in it, but it's not something most people take to the airport." Cho motioned for her to open it. She snapped on gloves, knelt, and pried it open as the team crowded around.

"Well look at that," Wylie breathed. It was filled with printed pages in beautiful, flowing Middle Eastern script. The pages were only slightly scorched.

Cho looked to Muhammad, Hassan and Ojara. "Language?"

"–the Quran in Arabic–" "–It looks like–" "–Arabic–"

All six straightened.

"The, uh, radical Islamic connection seems pretty certain," Wylie voiced everyone's thought.

Frowning, Cho asked, "Anything else in the box?"

Vega rose and offered it to Hassan. Muhammad nudged his arm and handed him gloves. Hassan, Muhammad, and Ojara peered closely as Hassan leafed through the pages. They paused to read a sheet in the very back. Hassan translated, "Allah is great. I submit and offer this sacrifice in His service. May this act inspire others and may Allah's caliphate soon triumph over the infidels." The flip side was blank. Hassan also pulled out a small scratch pad slip that had one word and some numbers on it. "This just says, 'Done,' and, a date?" It would have been the day before Sunday's attack.

Cho looked around. "Jane, anything?"

Jane shook his head. "Just taking in what my esteemed colleagues uncovered."

Cho stepped back to face his team. "Forensics is working on the explosive used and analyzing the crime scene. Let's sharpen their focus. Ojara, have them match the DNA on that shoe and Starbucks cup to the blood in the van. Make sure only one person was in the van. Have them analyze the detonator debris. The license plate is low priority for now.

"Muhammad and Hassan, keep circulating in the Sacramento metro Muslim community. We need to be as sure as possible there are no links to this terrorist. And take that box." Cho turned and signed the chain of custody evidence sheet. "Have Forensics dust for prints. Then I want the three of you to go over it in case we can glean more clues. Translate the letter and note into English. Make a list of anything unusual or questionable about the enclosed Quran.

"Wylie, you and Vega work on the Move It angle. If the VIN matches one of their vans get everything possible from that rental office _in person_. Vega, interview the employees and get any records and CCTV recordings. That's our strongest lead yet–"

"–Do I go too?" Wylie asked.

"No. Work with Vega on anything she gets from Move It. When Forensics is done, mine the databases for matches to prints, DNA, and terrorist IED experts. There might be more work from the teams canvassing and trying to recreate our unsub's trail."

"Jane, any ideas?"

"This is awfully ... directed," eyes bright as he grappled with a mystery. "Whoever planned this wanted us to conclude our terrorist was foreign." The team exchanged glances. "We should see where the breadcrumbs lead."

"Meaning?"

"If he was foreign, he didn't come legally. Air travel is too risky, so probably via the southern border." He looked at Cho. "Can the FBI get PD's to show the photo around, collect video from the gas stations and convenience stores within a couple hundred miles of the Mexican border?"

"Why not Canada?"

"Mexican drug cartels do human trafficking, including from the Middle East. Start with the better bet."

Cho frowned. "That's a significant effort."

Jane shrugged with affected diffidence. "To solve a significant attack." The dead now numbered 81 with others still critical. The attack continued to dominate the news nationwide.

"We'll talk later."

 **FBI, Sacramento**

They returned to the office and Cho's team scattered to tackle their assignments. Jane got tea and gingerly sank down on the couch with a sigh. Cho checked for updates from the other teams. After several follow-up calls he dragged a side chair over and put his coffee on the short filing cabinet by the couch.

"What's your take?"

Jane balanced his tea on his left knee while absently fidgeting with his right hand. "The motel. The shoes. A metal box protecting the letter and Quran from the blast. Someone took pains that we'd conclude the driver was not only an Islamic radical but someone foreign."

"Why?"

He shook his head. "Unknown, but it must be significant." Urgently, "We need to get whatever video might exist of this guy before it's overwritten."

"You're sure he came in from Mexico?"

He tipped his head, temporizing. "Strong hunch."

"Rodriguez and Durand have tracked him farther south on I-5. But I can't justify checking thousands of gas stations and convenience stores. Narrow it down."

Jane rubbed his forehead and spoke aloud, stream of consciousness. "Illegal. Avoiding cops and ICE. Traveling a direct route to minimize risk of discovery." He looked up. "He was traveling I-5 so let's assume he favored interstates. We don't need to track every mile, just the points where he might have changed direction, bought food and gas, or rented a motel room. Can you get the cops to canvass around the major cities off interstate highways near the border?"

Cho nodded, "That's doable."

Frowning, "There's likely to be a _lot_ of video..."

Cho grunted. "I'll see if Wylie can use facial recognition software to screen the video." Jane rose. "Where're you going?"

"Things to do–"

"–Wait a minute." Jane sat back down. "Where do we stand?"

"On?"

"A week ago you nixed CT work. Why are you here?"

"Hmmm. Why are any of us here?" he mused philosophically, stifling a yawn. _Getting blown up is exhausting._ "I changed my mind."

"Because you were caught in the attack?"

"Because friends were. Sacramento isn't immune to terrorism."

"Just this case?"

"No."

Cho sipped his coffee and summarized. "You're joining my team as a permanent consultant. You owe Abbott cases and you'll also want to work for the CIB. So ... _most_ of the time?"

"Mmhm," Jane nodded.

"I can only get you standard consulting rates."

Jane shrugged. "Whatever. I don't care about the money."

Cho near growled, "You work, you get paid."

Jane suddenly smirked, "If you can convince Mancini."

"My problem. Okay." Both rose.

Jane stretched. "I'll be back tomorrow when there's more to work with."

Cho looked a trifle more severe but just nodded. _Like herding a damn cat._

 **Van Pelt-Rigsby Home**

Rigsby closed the door and slumped a little, glad to be home after another 12-hour day. He abruptly knelt with open arms as both kids ran toward him with happy shouts of "Dad" and "Daddy."

He hugged Ben and ruffled his hair, "Hey, buddy." Taylor arrived second, slower on her shorter legs, "Hi, sweetie," and received a hug and tickle.

Grace peeked into the foyer from the kitchen. "Hey, babe. The kids have eaten and had baths. Will you read to Taylor and put her to bed while I warm dinner for you?"

"Yeah. Ben, Taylor is first since it's her bedtime."

"'Okay, Dad." The boy went back to his TV show in the family room.

Rigs made his way to the master bedroom, impeded by a Taylor barnacle clinging to his leg. He tossed suit jacket and tie on the bed, toed his shoes off then grabbed his daughter and lifted her to the ceiling. After giggles and fake screams from being so high and from her daddy rubbing his scratchy, stubbled cheek against hers, he carried her to her bedroom and settled down on the easy chair with her in his lap. Fifteen minutes and three kids' books later, she was sound asleep. He tucked her into the crib, reflecting on how fast she'd grown and how their family would soon expand by two.

It was 9 p.m. by the time Rigsby had dinner and played with Ben. Ben's half-hearted fussing about going to bed ended when Grace reminded him that tomorrow's zoo trip hinged on good behavior. She wanted to fit in as much fun family time as possible during her last week of vacation.

Rigs joined his wife in the living room with a beer and bowl of chips, gladly settling down next to her on the couch. He draped his arm on the couch above her shoulders.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself. Another long day. How'd it go?"

"Tension over the attack is easing. There were a few touch and go moments, but the crowds stayed peaceful. Rescue and recovery at the airport are pretty much done so SacPD can take over keeping the lid on. Hightower announced regular work hours starting tomorrow."

"Barring new cases."

"As always." He washed down a handful of chips with a sip of beer. "What did the doctor say? –And was Min able to babysit during your appointment?"

She exhaled, puffing her cheeks out. "Everything is fine."

He peered around at her face, picking up ... something. "But?"

The corners of her mouth turned down slightly. "The doctor said stress from the airport attack is probably the reason for all the baby movement." Grace quickly added, "There is nothing wrong. But she wants me to reduce stress as much as possible."

He scratched his head. "Meaning what?"

She grimaced. "She recommends going on maternity leave soon. Like in a few weeks soon."

His embrace unconsciously tightened. Low key, "That sounds like good advice, especially carrying twins."

She sighed and pouted. "I hoped to stick it out till my eighth month. I can't manage a team if I'm not there."

Soothingly, "You can do it all, but maybe not all at the same time. In the big scheme of things, taking a break for a few months to be sure the babies–"

She silenced him with a kiss, which he enthusiastically returned. After several enjoyable minutes they resumed talking.

"Wayne, I'm not going to do anything stupid. It's just frustrating. I finally have my own team – a good one – but now it has to take a back burner."

Gently, "You're pregnant with twins. Yeah, your team will miss you, but Hightower went out of her way to recruit you. This is a brief pause in your career, not the end."

She sighed and snuggled down, wanting to be convinced, wanting to be comforted. Their marriage, their family, her team – she'd already accomplished much of what she'd hoped for even before college.

A few minutes later Rigs nudged her gently, "You're falling asleep, babe. Bedtime?"

Straightening and blinking awake. "Not yet or I'll be up in the middle of the night. 'Sides, I've barely seen you since we got back from Iowa. –Here's some news."

"What?"

"Min."

He shrugged. "She's back, what else?"

"She's pregnant."

He swallowed and stared. "She's what?"

"Almost as far along as I am."

He took a deep breath. "Wow. Uh, does she _want_ to be pregnant, what's the story?"

She shook her head. "I doubt it was planned."

"Who? I mean, I didn't think she even dated."

"She didn't say. It might be her math professor. He's young, single, good-looking, and brilliant in math, naturally. She was distraught when he left for MIT."

Rigs absently rotated the beer bottle on his knee. After Ben, he knew all too well the life-changing disruption of an unplanned pregnancy. Only, he and Sarah were adults with secure, good-paying jobs and committed to doing what was best for their child.

Softly, "What's she going to do? Um, she's, she's not–"

"No! She'd never end the pregnancy, not after growing up with horrific stories about forced abortion in China and North Korea."

"Will the guy step up?"

Sadly, "Doubt it. He cut all ties before she knew about the pregnancy."

He pulled her closer. "She's gonna need guidance and help from somewhere. Her family in Korea? Was that why she went to visit?"

"Min said her aunt is helping her."

"That's good." He swallowed uncomfortably. "Should we tell Cho?"

"Min didn't swear me to secrecy and the pregnancy will be obvious pretty soon. But it's not our news to tell."

"But it's his cousin – his really young cousin. How will Cho feel if I know and don't tell him?"

"It's awkward as hell, Wayne, but we should stay out of it. Mrs. Cho can tell him when it's ... appropriate, don't you think?"

Rigs released a gusty sigh and leaned back. "Okay. For now. Let's see what happens in the next few weeks."

They wearily rose and headed off to bed.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home**

Lisbon wiped the already spotless kitchen counter, annoyed with work and annoyed with her increasingly late husband. Worrying about the IVF wasn't helping either.

The TV droning in the adjacent room provided regular updates about the attack. The TV was really on to drown out the silence. Since Jane had come back, since they started living together, she was no longer used to being an island entirely unto herself. Alone. It was wonderful to come home to Jane's company instead of a dark, empty and silent house.

TV noise occasionally sorted itself into meaningful words, sentences, information. _The vultures have theme music for attack updates, like it's a product_ , she thought in disgust. With little new information beyond the grim, slowly rising body count, news channels turned to predictable heart-rending interviews with victims' relatives. With interest in the interviews waning, coverage had turned to the political angles. _'Sources close to the investigation say the terrorist was definitely an Islamic radical._ ' She scowled at the thought of leaks during the investigation. _'It is not known whether he was a US resident or from another nation. Senator Wentworth won't comment on rumors that he might change his position on US Middle East policies if the terrorist was foreign...'_ The TV showed the senator speaking to the press with his teary, grief-stricken granddaughter/aide beside him. Sourly, _Media and politicians – a match made in hell. Bad enough our governor takes a poll before deciding which way to jump._ She put her sponge down and sighed, grudgingly allowing it behooved the Senator to be visible and engaged. It was, after all, an attack in the capital city of his state. And he was prominent in foreign relations, defense, and intelligence matters. _I guess he–_ The click of the door latch caught her attention.

"Jane?"

"The one and only." He moseyed into the kitchen. When he leaned in for a kiss, to his surprise she leaned away. "A-n-d, how have I ticked off my beautiful wife without even being present?"

"Exactly! Your beautiful wife has been wondering where the hell you were. –It's 9 o'clock. You couldn't return my call?"

Jane sighed and his shoulders drooped. He plucked his cell phone from a pocket and held it up. "Dead as a door nail. It didn't survive after all. I only noticed on my way home."

"Oh."

"Sorry, my dear." He put his arms around her waist. This time she let him pull her close and leaned into his kiss. Breaking apart, he glanced around the pristine, over-organized kitchen. "What's going on, Teresa?"

She squirmed away. "Dinner? I stopped at the store on the way home."

He joined her at the counter to make tea and get a plate. "You ate? Are you having anything now?"

"Just coffee."

A few minutes later Jane was devouring rotisserie chicken and potato salad. Lisbon sat across sipping her coffee.

"How was your day?" He eyed her critically. "You don't seem very happy."

Elbows propped on the table, she rested her chin on her hands. "This is the final day of providing crowd control and extra security. The CIB is back to its regular work tomorrow."

Swallowing a bite, "That's a success. No dangerous disturbances after a major attack."

Glumly, "Yeah, that's good."

"But?"

"But it's frustrating when everything's political. The governor and party bosses are going to run Hightower for AG."

Jane smiled. "That's good news, what you've been hoping. Someone is unduly grumpy and needs cheering up."

She made a face. "They're going with Hightower because the FBI thinks the terrorist was a foreign national who came over the border."

"What?! How does the governor know? Damn."

"Now who needs cheering up?"

Agitated, Jane rose and took his dishes to the dishwasher. Lisbon stood and ran her hand down his arm in a caress. He took a breath and consciously calmed himself. "I don't know what we might lose if that information gets out." Frustrated, "The FBI is _supposed_ to be better than this."

She couldn't quite squelch a grin. "Hmm, it sounds like a new appreciation for rules and professionalism."

"Mmph."

They took their beverages and moved to the living room. They sat together, shoulders touching. "So you're making progress on the case?"

"It's early. No clear picture of who and why."

"Isn't the why obvious?"

"Sure, Islamic radicals want to strike against the US. But the pieces don't quite fit together. There's more to it than a zealot who managed a lucky attack."

"Did you talk with Cho about working with his team?"

He nodded. "I did. It'll be part time since I owe Abbott and want time for the CIB too."

"How will this work, Patrick? Lives are at stake in CT. You ... blamed yourself when Red John killed people or hurt them like Kristina." Jane winced at her name and firmly pushed away thoughts of her living death in a mental institution.

He exhaled slowly, head resting against the couch back. "That ... is a concern. It's better than when we were hunting Red John... I _think_ I can make it work to protect my family, my friends."

Worried, "Are you sure?"

He faced her, stifling the impulse to deflect or gloze over the challenges. "Of course I'm not absolutely sure. But our marriage comes first. And if I have a second chance at being a father, nothing will be more important." He shrugged, words failing him. "I can't be the man I want to be for you and the father for our kids if I get too ... obsessed with CT." He shook his head and sighed in frustration. "I can't explain any better than that."

"And if it doesn't work?" her loving gaze tempered with concern.

"I want to do this, think I can. But I'm not signing my life away, Teresa. If I'm wrong, I'll quit before it costs me my family." He swallowed convulsively and looked away. "Again."

She hugged him, pulling his head down against her. Softly, "Hey. I didn't mean to grill you. Knowing you're giving yourself permission to stop if it's too much helps." Hesitantly, "That's different from when you were hunting Red John."

He placed a line of light kisses along her jaw then straightened. He reached for his tea with a shaky hand. They relaxed into a deep, companionable silence that let them regroup and calm down.

After awhile, "How are you feeling about the IVF process?"

She stiffened. _Of course he'd remember, despite the attack._ "I, I didn't think, I mean after everything–"

He silenced her with kisses. "You. And family. There's nothing more important to me." He pulled back a little, hands cradling her face. Gently, "Talk to me, dear."

She grimaced. "The waiting is killing me, hoping but not knowing."

"How can I help?"

A shudder ran through her. "Just be here – a lot. Do this _with_ me, so I feel you want this too."

"I will. And I do."

She sniffed and managed a watery smile. "Think of it as practice for that balance you're gonna manage."

Firmly, "I think of it as my wife doing something very hard in hopes of creating something incredible for us both."

They cuddled a while longer before turning in.


	21. Chapter 21 - Dead(ly) Ends

**Chapter 21: Dead(ly) Ends**

 **Cho, Sacramento, Friday**

Cho threaded his way through Friday night traffic preoccupied with the case, devoting only enough attention to driving for safety. Progress on the case was just not enough. To the good, there hadn't been another attack. The bad? They were no closer to identifying the terrorist, accomplices and organization (verifying it was Al Qaeda) than they were on Sunday. Most agents who had been working the case had been reassigned, although a dozen were helping finish running down tips and checking the less promising possibilities. Agents across the US were available as needed but, so far, they just didn't have good leads. He mulled the information from the team meeting.

Dark rumors about Muslims repeatedly swept through California, feeding suspicions and raising tension. Working with local FBI offices, Muhammad and Hassan found no connections between the attack and any California Muslim community, a relief but also a dead end.

Prying apart the van's crushed cab produced little. Forensics verified only one man was in the van. Hopes raised by finding an intact hand in the bloody mess were soon dashed. As with the photo, the three useable fingerprints got no matches. The crowning disappointment was the shattered, melted junk that used to be a cell phone, that might have led them to accomplices.

Rodriguez and Durand had traced the terrorist's journey back to the Texas-Mexico border; Jane's hunch got them photos before security recordings were overwritten. They had a time-line, a few grainy photos and an obviously fake name. Lacking an identity, tracking him further rested on visual recognition by Mexican law enforcement, drug cartel informants – _like that'll get us anything_ – and the intelligence agencies of friendly nations. Cho wasn't optimistic.

Vega checked out the Move It van used in the attack. It was rented in southern California the preceding Wednesday. Having traced the terrorist's itinerary, they knew he was driving through Arizona that day so another man had to have rented the van: _Unsub number two._

Cho unconsciously sighed. Once again, the name, ID and credit card were false. A baseball cap and beard obscured the face from the security camera at the Move It counter. _The counter guy had a foot-long handle-bar mustache and swore the customer's beard was fake._ Cho's lips quirked, _Of course Jane trots out 'pogonophile'..._ Luckily, they got a full-face image from a second camera that recorded the entrance to inside storage , Wylie got no matches from any database of criminals or terrorists. _Which leaves the explosives._

Ammonium nitrate fertilizer plus diesel fuel was used, the same as in the Oklahoma City bombing in the '90's. Forensics roughly estimated the quantity based on destruction at the airport. Unlike plastic high explosives, fertilizer manufacturers weren't required to mix in chemical ID markers. Ojara and Vega checked fertilizer distributors within a hundred miles of the Move It rental location for recent orders. The most promising possibility was a farmer who had immigrated from Iraq decades ago. He had been arrested for minor scuffles during demonstrations against US Middle East policies. Fertilizer in the right quantity was charged to his credit card three weeks before the attack. The lead and hopes literally died there. The man had passed away of natural causes two weeks before the attack. His shocked widow was vehement he had nothing to do with terrorism and told them they'd stopped using that charge card. She angrily challenged them to find evidence of involvement in his computer and papers. They found nothin–

"–Damn!" Cho jammed on the brakes and narrowly avoided rear-ending the car ahead. He exhaled and relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. He glanced at the dashboard clock, frowned, and fished out his cell phone. "Tamsin, it's Cho. ... I'm off work, but I got called into DC tomorrow, early flight. ... Sorry I have to cancel. ... Yeah, next time."

Tamsin Wade had called mid-day. Fried from 16-hour days investigating the attack, Cho had welcomed her invitation to drinks and dinner. He'd have to eat anyhow and the distraction would be a relief. Then Abbott's admin called, summoning him and Jane to DC for a Saturday meeting. Cho frowned recalling Jane's resistance, then let it go. _Abbott's deal with Jane is Abbott's headache._ Cho sent his team home at the workday's end to rest and regroup, though Jane was still poring over unsub photos when he left. They would pick up the work on Sunday, refreshed after having Saturday off.

Exhaustion and frustration caught up with him during the drive home, especially with the prospect of a 6 a.m. flight. Getting together with Wade could happen another time ... if at all. He still bristled at her hard-assed reaction to Summer Edgecomb before the CBI was disbanded. He wondered if Wade's attitude changed because he was now FBI. That would make it worse.

After a shower and an hour to decompress he was surprised by the doorbell. _Better not be Wade dogging me..._

Yanking open the door, "What is – Alyssa?"

"Hey, Cho." Alyssa Chay leaned casually against the railing. "Can I interest you in hot pizza and a cold six pack?" She grinned, "No pineapple."

He opened the door wider and motioned her in. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in town for a briefing on the wildfires and have the night off." California summers were plagued with wildfires and this one was typical. But the rules required periodic downtime to keep the pilots who dropped water and fire suppression chemicals from literally crashing and burning.

"How'd you know I'd be home?"

"Either you are or you aren't. Let's eat while it's hot, huh?"

He nodded and led the way to the kitchen. Unlike Wade, unlike her sister Elise Chay, Alyssa was easy, soothing. She'd be good company even with everything going on. _Especially_ _with everything going on._

 **Lisbon-Jane Home**

The terrifying, trying week had finally ended, at least for them. The devastation was permanent for those with murdered family and friends.

Lisbon puttered, glad to unwind with mindless domesticity. Now settled in their new home, she resumed gardening efforts she'd begun in Cannon River with a dozen outdoor potted plants. (Indoor plants died ugly deaths during long away cases.) Done with watering and dead-heading, she showered and put Jane's latest concoction in the oven to bake. (Three years after Jane discovered Sophie Miller's severed head, he still avoided using the oven.) She was mildly disappointed but not surprised when Jane called to say he'd be late. He hated abandoning a puzzle before solving it. "Quitting time" meant nothing unless he'd made a specific commitment. He finally showed up at 8 p.m.

"About time," she called easily over her shoulder, glancing up from her law enforcement periodical.

"Hello, my dear. Have you eaten?"

"Mmhm. Food's in the fridge." He dropped a kiss on her cheek on his way to the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later he joined her on the couch, tray laden with dinner and tea and a slice of cake for her. She set her reading aside.

"You first," he said between bites. "How was your day?"

"We're back to normal cases and the regular schedule. Hightower's gonna announce she's running for AG on Monday."

"Then you'll officially be the assistant director?"

"Uh-huh. She'll announce it in the same meeting."

He raised his teacup in a salute. "A long-overdue home-coming and elevation to top cop."

Dryly, "It's the CIB not CBI and just _assistant_ top cop."

Unfazed, "Only a matter of time. Teresa Lisbon was always the legitimate heir."

She waved it off with a soft snort, "That's not saying much after Bertram."

" _Au contraire_ , Bertram proved the glaring mistake of passing you over."

She shifted restlessly, pleased but uncomfortable with glowing praise, "Minelli had just retired and I wasn't ready."

"They should have gone with quality, my dear. You'd have gotten there. Instead, they chose a venal, grandstanding, criminal hack who destroyed the CBI."

Quickly changing the subject, "How's the case?" She took a bite of cake.

He sipped his tea and leaned back, slumping. "So far, dead ends."

"Is that what kept you?"

"I was checking out an idea." He paused, gaze unfocused. "The _convenient_ narrative, the _obvious_ narrative ... doesn't fit."

She straightened in surprise. "It wasn't a terrorist attack by an Islamic radical?"

He turned toward her. "Of course it was. But there are unexplored layers to the puzzle." He deftly forked a piece of her cake.

"Hey!" She glared, protesting the theft on principle. "Is that why you're up in the middle of the night?"

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. I just noticed."

He shrugged. "Hassan's university professor gave me books on the Middle East and Islam. And language DVD's. I'm woefully unprepared for working CT."

"Because it's hard reading people from other cultures?"

He nodded. "American, European, Russian extremists are easy, but I need a crash course on the Middle East." He frowned at a new thought. "I haven't even _thought_ about Asian and African cultures."

She gently bumped shoulders. "Just get enough sleep. And don't get sucked in too deep."

He smirked, "Yes, dear." Returning to his earlier thought, "Ruthless doesn't mean stupid or illogical. The current narrative requires assumptions that'd tie a contortionist in knots." He again drifted off into thoughts about the case.

She ate her cake and waited. She finally nudged his knee and broached the topic, "Are you gonna tell me about Abbott?"

He started. "There's nothing to tell."

She rolled her eyes. "Abbott's admin phoned to remind you – forcefully – that you damn well better show up when Abbott calls."

Curtly, "Cho's going."

Lisbon frowned, "Jane, you owe Abbott work, what's the problem?"

"He wants me in DC tomorrow."

"So?"

Jane pulled her close. "You're more important."

Her eyes narrowed, "You mean the blood test?" He nodded. Both pleased and perplexed she said softly, "Patrick, the doctor said the first test is a baseline that doesn't mean anything. Go meet with Abbott before he blows a gasket." _Or throws you in prison._

"You're–"

"–Sure. _Tuesday_ is the one that matters."

He tightened his embrace then released her. "I'd best humor Abbott then."

Intercourse was ill-advised after an embryo transfer so they made do with cuddling, making out, and a fair amount of biofeedback by Jane. They turned in early so he could be up by dawn for the flight to DC.

 **Sacramento Airport, Saturday**

Terminal B handled all flights until Terminal A could be rebuilt. Jane strolled to the gate sipping tea in a disposable cup. Only a scattering of passengers waited for the 6 a.m. flight. He caught sight of Cho who was reading and noticed another senior agent nearby.

"Cho, Singh," he greeted amiably. Cho nodded; Singh waved casually. "Why are you on this infelicitous flight, Singh?"

Yawning, "The Deputy Director says, 'Jump,' I ask, 'How high?'" Singh scratched his head. "He wants a briefing on my case." At Jane's questioning glance he explained quietly, "The CIA agent who died in a car crash last Saturday."

"Ah." Jane looked over at Cho.

Without looking up, "What?"

"You booked coach?" Cho nodded, continuing to read. Lightly, "I'll upgrade to first class, my nickel." Cho's bad back qualified him for an exception to FBI rules specifying coach but Cho begrudged the hit to his unit's budget. Glancing over at the other man, Jane added, "You too, Singh."

"Uh, why?"

Jane shrugged one shoulder. "It's a six-hour flight and I don't fly well. You can distract me with your case."

"Thanks," Singh said, pleased at Jane's generosity and hopeful Jane might even offer useful insights. He glanced at the clock behind the ticket counter. "I have time for a pit stop before we board," and left for the men's room.

Cho looked up. "You fly fine. Why?"

"Meh. Just curious."

Cho stared for a moment then resumed reading. Jane went to the counter to put in the upgrades. He chose a window seat, put Singh on the aisle, and gave Cho the seat across the aisle.

Six-and-a-half hours became seven-and-a-half after detouring around bad weather. The nearly empty first class section let them talk without being overheard. When they touched down at Dulles International at 5 p.m. local time Jane knew as much about Singh's case as Singh did. As did Cho. They got sandwiches and drinks before taking a taxi to FBI headquarters.

Only a few FBI personnel were in during the weekend. Singh opted to wait in the Deputy Director's anteroom for his meeting which had also been pushed back. Cho and Jane got to Abbott's office at 5:25 p.m.

"About time," Abbott growled, looking up from his desk. He checked the time and exhaled in frustration. "I wanted to talk before the meeting, but there's no time." Rising, he motioned them to follow. "People from several FBI branches and all national security agencies will be present. We'll see how they can help with your case. Jane, take a look at everyone and see if you pick up anything interesting." The elevator doors closed with just the three men inside. Abbott looked hard at Cho and Jane. "Information is dangerous in this town. Stick to facts in there." The doors opened, precluding elaboration.

The meeting began at 5:30. Courtney Wentworth quietly entered a few minutes later as the group was making introductions. As the only observer she took a seat away from the conference table.

Cho presented the work done and facts gathered to date. Representatives from the various branches and agencies explored the options for identifying and tracking the two unsubs inside the US and internationally, by physical means, by human intelligence, and electronically.

The group took a ten minute break halfway through. Cho sipped his coffee and talked with an NSA staffer while subtly keeping an eye on Jane. Wentworth joined Jane at the beverage station as he prepared tea.

Jane smiled and extended his hand, "We meet again." Jane flinched when they shook. She released his hand as though burned. He showed her the large, fading bruise on his hand. "Sorry."

"This meeting is under grim circumstances," she said, as befit someone from California.

"I've seen you and the senator in newscasts." Jane sipped his tea.

She cocked her head, and eyed the new scar barely covered by his hair and fading scrapes and bruises on his face. "My god, you – were you caught up in–" Sympathy and something else flickered in her eyes.

Unemotionally, "–I was at the airport during the attack."

She swallowed a lump. "Did you lose–" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"No, I was lucky," he said, closely watching her face.

She looked down and to the side. Choking back emotion, "It's horrible. My grandfather's outraged."

Gently, "Did you lose someone close?"

"No, thank god." She vaguely waved to include everyone present. "The senator wants to ensure everything possible is being done." She looked around. Most people were seated at the table.

"They're about to resume," Jane noted and turned away.

She caught his elbow, "I'm sorry you were hurt."

"Thank you but I'm okay. Sadly, not everyone was as fortunate." Sorrow, regret and – guilt(?) marked her expression until she regained her poise.

The meeting ended at 6:30. The attendees left after agreeing on what each area could contribute. Thousands stationed abroad from the FBI, CIA, ICE and military intelligence would join in trying to identify the dead terrorist and pick up information about the attack. Cho thought the odds of learning much were slim when all they had were low-quality photos for visual identification and a questionable claim by Al Qaeda. Abbott, Cho and Jane lingered near the door.

"I have another meeting. Be back here by 8."

As they watched Abbott stride away Jane noticed Wentworth talking with someone farther down the hall. "Who's that?"

"FBI agent. Saw him around when I trained at Quantico but don't know his name. Why?"

Jane tapped his lip. "Just wondering." He turned to Cho, "Dinner?"

The airport sandwiches had barely carried them through the meeting and their stomachs protested the neglect. Jane and Cho stopped at the first reasonable looking restaurant and got seated before the worst of the Friday night crowds. They chose a secluded booth at the room's perimeter in the mid-range bar and grill. A tv tuned to an all news channel flickered silently above the bar with captions instead of sound. Jane called Lisbon while they waited for their food. As expected, she didn't know anything from the baseline blood test.

Three-quarters of an hour later Cho slid his plate away and waited for Jane to finish. "What're your thoughts?"

Jane waved the server over to clear the table and bring more tea. "What makes you think there's anything?"

Cho looked at him flatly. "You upgraded Singh's seat so you could pump him for information. You're wondering about Abbott's warning. –And what did Wentworth want?"

Jane mocked, "Ah, you know me too well, the mystery is gone," before answering seriously. "Singh _just happens_ to be meeting here the same day, same flight as us. I'd lay odds Abbott's in that meeting with Singh and the Deputy Director. How does a terrorist attack connect to a CIA agent killed in a car accident? Abbott doesn't trust the people who were in our meeting. Why? And I wonder why Courtney Wentworth, the senator's _granddaughter_ not just an aide, shows up the second time we're here. On a Saturday. Overly distraught about the attack–"

"–It's her state capital."

"She's mid-30's, tough and experienced. She doesn't know me and didn't lose anyone in the attack. The emoting is excessive." He frowned. "She's having an affair with the FBI agent, which may or may not be relev–"

"–Look." Cho motioned toward the TV. Jane half turned. "Isn't that the senator?" Jane nodded and they paused to read the crawl.

'TODAY SENATOR WENTWORTH WITHDREW HIS OPPOSITION TO INTERVENTION IN THE MIDDLE EAST. WENTWORTH SAID THE CALIFORNIA TERRORIST ATTACK CHANGED HIS MIND. ... TROPICAL STORM DANIELLE BREWING IN THE ATLANTIC–'

Jane turned back and finished his thought. "Too many questions, too many coincidences."

"What about the case?"

Jane ran a hand through his hair. "The ostensible narrative has more holes than pieces fitting together." At Cho's raised eyebrow, "I don't have an alternative theory – yet."

Cho nodded tightly. "No way to ID the terrorist or accomplice. No confirmation it's Al Qaeda. No connections to anything. Too pat to be a one-time attack by an amateur with a friend." He signaled the server for more coffee. "Let's go through it before we meet Abbott."

Jane gave a calculating glance, "Don't trust Abbott?"

"Managing the brass. I want to decide where to take the case before Abbott weighs in. I need to know what he can tell us about those coincidences."

 **Abbott, Cho, and Jane, FBI DC Headquarters, Saturday Evening**

Cho and Jane knocked on the door to Abbott's office. He waved them in.

"You're–" Abbott glanced at a clock, "on time," he acknowledged almost grudgingly.

Jane sauntered over and placed a take-out bag on his desk. Lightly, "Here's something to eat. The break room has tea and comfortable chairs so let's talk there, g-man."

Abbott said nothing, but rose and followed Jane and Cho after a moment. The building had been sparsely occupied earlier. Now, Saturday evening, it was deserted. Abbott chose a table and fetched what he needed from the counter. He fastidiously swiped a germicidal wipe over the table in front of him before sitting and pulling out the sandwich. Cho and Jane settled into the comfortable chairs opposite him and waited for him to begin.

After chewing and swallowing a bite, Abbott started. "We covered the facts in the meeting. I want your thoughts about them."

Cho began. "Two weeks ago, a man illegally crossed into Texas from Mexico, traveled to Sacramento and, with the help of an accomplice, destroyed Terminal A of the Sacramento International airport on Sunday. Everything else is questionable."

Abbott frowned. "Explain."

"Obviously, a foreign national launched a successful attack. We think there's more to it." Abbott nodded for him to continue.

Jane picked it up. Almost off-handedly, "Why did Al Qaeda take three hours to claim credit? Why would it pay travel costs for an uncomplicated attack when it now mainly radicalizes men already here? If Al Qaeda _didn't_ pay the travel costs, why would a poor man–"

Abbott interrupted sharply, "–How do you know that?"

"A cheap shoe with the terrorist's blood on it."

Cho added, "Hassan and Muhammad say only the poor wear them in the Middle East."

Jane resumed, "Why would a poor man travel here instead of attacking targets in the Middle East? He crossed the border in Texas. Why skip bigger, better known targets like Houston or LA to attack Sacramento?" Jane shook his head. "Logic applies, zealot or not. And that's just the beginning." Jane stopped and sipped his tea.

"Go on."

Cho spoke. "The terrorist had the Quran in a metal box. That ensured it would survive the explosion and link the attack to Islamic terrorism."

Abbott commented, "Not inconsistent for an Islamic terrorist."

Cho continued. "Only one customer within a hundred miles of the Move It office ordered the necessary amount of fertilizer three weeks before the attack." He added before Abbott asked, "I have agents checking farther away but so far, nothing. It was bought with a credit card belonging to a farmer who immigrated from Iraq decades ago. No links to terrorism. His wife says they had stopped using the card."

Frowning, "No links to terrorism?"

Jane shook his head, "Nope. And he conveniently died of natural causes two weeks before the attack."

Cho frowned. "The farmer didn't rent the van. If he wasn't involved, who else had access to his credit card number?" Cho took a mouthful of coffee. "Every FBI office has the photos of the two unsubs and the Iraqi farmer. My agents have circulated in the California Muslim community. No one recalls the farmer supporting terrorism. No one recognizes the photos or heard about plans for an attack. The photos and three usable fingerprints aren't in any databases. NSA didn't pick up electronic chatter about an attack." Intensely, "We are being fed a story designed to dead end."

The silence stretched into minutes as Abbott finished his sandwich.

Suddenly Jane asked, "How does the CIA agent who died in a Sacramento car crash fit in?"

Abbott looked up sharply, "Who says he does?"

"You just did." Jane smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "You asked how I knew instead of denying it. Gold tell."

Abbott exhaled slowly. He looked around to be sure there was no one to overhear. "The agent who died was under investigation."

Cho frowned. "Corruption, on the take?"

"Maybe money, maybe something else."

Cho pushed. "He had a sniper rifle in the trunk the day before a terrorist attack. There are three possibilities. He was there to stop the attack. He was there to join the attack. Or it was coincidence. I don't believe in coincidence." A flicker of smile crossed Jane's face.

Abbott unconsciously flexed his shoulders. "We –"

"–You and the Deputy Director?" Jane asked pointedly.

Abbott nodded sharply once. "We don't think he was helping the terrorist."

Jane rubbed his thumb over the fingertips on his right hand as he thought aloud. "Interesting. If he was trying to stop it legitimately, he'd work with the Sacramento FBI – Cho or Mancini. The sniper rifle suggests killing the terrorist," he frowned, "though we don't know whether it'd be before the attack or after. Hiding something? Protecting a larger plan or wider group?" Jane looked up and stared at Abbott. "The Deputy Director can't spend time on one dirty agent among thousands." Jane leaned forward, "It's more than one agent and more significant than greed. A-n-d you're suspicious of the other agencies that were at today's meeting." He sat back grinning as Abbott's micro-reactions confirmed his guesses.

Cho spoke into the silence. "We can't work in the dark, boss."

Abbott deflected. "What did you pick up in the meeting, Jane?"

Jane shook his head slightly and gazed at the table recalling the meeting. "There's no love lost between the FBI branches and the other agencies." Thoughtfully, "The CIA guy didn't want to be there, was hiding something relevant to the case. Ms. NSA was worried but doesn't know anything for sure." He looked at Abbott. "There was an undercurrent of unease among everyone there that had nothing to do with the case."

Cho and Jane leaned back, waiting.

Abbott rubbed his jaw. After a minute, "I need to know if the CIA agent was connected to the airport attack. See what you can find in the next two weeks and we'll meet again."

"My team will need Singh's information."

"I'll make that happen. Keep your investigations separate."

"Yes, sir."

Jane tilted his head, "You're keeping us in the dark?"

"Let's see what you turn up. Cho, make sure your team discusses this only in person at the Sacramento FBI."

The thee men rose. They paused at the corridor.

Jane slyly glanced sideways at Abbott. "You sweep your office for bugs, Dennis?"

Abbott looked startled, then pursed his lips. "Daily."

They started to move away then paused when Jane called, "Dennis– Why was Wentworth there?"

Abbott turned back. "The senator thinks he's indispensable to national defense. He demands being in the loop."

Cho frowned. "Since when does anyone outside the Bureau get information about on-going investigations?"

Abbott grimaced, "The senator's influential on every committee involved with national security. That courtesy–" he adjusted his glasses, "ensures his support." He added, "I'm told his office has never leaked confidential information."

Jane just nodded. After a moment, Cho and Jane walked toward the exit and Abbott returned to his office.

They exited the building and paused.

"Want to do anything? Comedy club?" Cho asked.

"I'll catch a redeye home. See you tomorrow."

 **Van Pelt-Rigsby Home, Sacramento, Sunday Evening**

Rigsby sank onto the couch with a sigh. "Taylor and Ben are down. At last."

"Thanks, Wayne."

He eyed his very pregnant wife. "Ready for work tomorrow?"

"Yes, though I'm beginning to think the doctor is right. I'm just _tired._ "

"You're entitled. You just spent two weeks keeping our kids busy and you're carrying twins. ... You were in a terrorist attack. -You could go on maternity leave now," he suggested hopefully.

She shook her head. "I want to close the two cases and finish up the paperwork. A couple more weeks."

"Min's okay doing child care till you're off?" His wife nodded. "Heck, she's pretty far along herself. Is _she_ up to it?"

"I talked to her today. She feels fine and wants to finish up August. Min's been talking to adoption agencies about choosing a couple for her baby. She sounds frustrated."

He shook his head slowly. "That's a huge decision. I can't imagine giving Ben up after he was born."

She sighed. Slowly, "I know there are wonderful people who want to adopt and Min thinks that's best for her and her baby. Even thinking about giving a baby up is hard, especially to strangers." She shuddered.

Rigsby moved close and took her hands. "Grace, Mrs. Cho is helping and it is Min's decision. You said it yourself. There are good families out there. It's not our problem." He took a breath and swallowed hard. He changed the subject with deliberate cheer. "Hey, check your email. Hightower's called an all-employee meeting tomorrow morning. Scuttlebutt has it she's filling the assistant director position."

"Who?"

He shrugged and grinned. "No one knows. I hope it's the boss."

"Lisbon?" He nodded. "She's been consulting for Hightower. That'd be terrific."

"We'll know tomorrow. Let's turn in so you're rested for work."

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Just Past Midnight on Monday Morning**

Lisbon stirred as Jane slipped into bed. "Mmph," as she rolled over on her back. "Thought you stayed in DC," she mumbled half asleep.

He slid closer and kissed her cheek. "Why stay in a lonely hotel room when I can be here with you?"

She turned toward him and nestled against his side. "Works for me."

"You're okay, with the test and all?"

She brushed a strand of hair away from her mouth and settled closer. "'S okay. I'll–" yawn, "know soon enough. ..." Sleepily, "Anything interesting happen in DC?"

"Meh, it'll keep. ... Ready for your ascension to top of the CIB food chain?"

Lisbon lifted her head from his chest, more awake. Wonderingly, "Yeah. I never thought this'd happen, but I'm looking forward to it."

His embrace tightened. "Good." He kissed her tenderly and relaxed completely. "'Night, Teresa. Love you."

"Love you more," she whispered and surrendered to sleep.


	22. Chapter 22 - New Directions

**Chapter 22: New Directions**

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Sacramento, Monday**

Lisbon finished her make-up and stood back to check her full-length reflection. _I'll do._

Throughout her career she wore the de rigueur dark pantsuits of female detectives in law enforcement. But now charcoal, grayed navy, and deep forest green hung beside black in her closet. Her footwear remained low-heeled and practical. Nothing was flashy or overly feminine. And yet it was a world away from her garb before Jane joined the team. Almost unconsciously, his silent, subtle appreciation had encouraged her to care and it showed. Light makeup, not none. Fitted and tailored rather than straight off the rack. Crepe de chine, not cheap stretch cotton. Stylish ankle boots instead of clunky loafers.

She knew she could do the job – the _real_ job of director not just assistant director. It was satisfying to _look_ the part as well, especially when she'd be standing alongside Hightower. She smoothed hair styled in a simple French knot and left the bedroom.

Jane had kissed her and left for work before she even made it out of bed. She missed sharing the morning, but appreciated the coffee and the cold breakfast of fruit, cheeses, and a healthful muffin he'd left for her. They'd catch up that evening.

 **CIB, Monday, 8:30 A.M.**

Lisbon showed her temporary ID to security and waited for an elevator to the third floor. When '3' lit up she exited and found the corridor that led to the front of the meeting room. She turned the corner and stopped short.

"JJ!" She narrowly avoided crashing into his bulk. "I–" He lightly caught her upper arm until she steadied herself. Releasing her he leaned far to the right, peeking around her. She imagined him toppling like a felled redwood before banishing the absurd thought. "Uh, what–"

Deliberate, monotonic, "Good morning. I thought I'd see Mr. Jane." His expression was unreadable. "He seems to appear whenever you do."

"I, um, no," she stammered. Getting her thoughts in order, "He's working a case for the FBI, Agent LaRoche."

"I see." A tiny smirk appeared then vanished. "If you'll excuse me." He stepped to the side and walked past her.

 _What the hell was that? Damned man always has me off-balance._ Lisbon shook it off and made her way to the door at the front of the room. She took a seat at the side and waited as the last few crowded in at the back of the room. Technicians fiddled with equipment for the video feed for field offices and for employees unable to leave their posts. She glimpsed Wayne Rigsby above the sea of heads but recognized few others. Exposing the Blake Association and disbanding the CBI had truly swept a swath through experienced California law enforcement. The CIB was indeed a fresh start.

Hightower entered and walked to the podium exactly one minute before meeting time. She paused until the room quieted.

"Good morning. As you know, Attorney General Gordon is retiring at the end of this term. I have been nominated by his party to run for election as California's next attorney general." She paused as a murmur ran through the crowd. "Campaigning involves considerable time and travel and I will not have my divided attention disadvantage the CIB's work. Starting today, Teresa Lisbon is assuming the position of assistant director of the CIB. She is _acting_ director until the election, with the director's full responsibilities and authority.

Hightower turned and motioned Lisbon to join her. "It is my pleasure to introduce Agent Teresa Lisbon. Yes, she is _the_ Agent Lisbon whose team solved the Red John serial killer case among countless others during 11 years with the California Bureau of Investigation. She uncovered the Blake Association conspiracy that corrupted law enforcement in 24 states, including ours. Her subsequent work at the FBI was crucial to apprehending the Blake leaders and eliminating the conspiracy for good."

A smattering of claps sounded like early raindrops then swelled to a roar. Lisbon swallowed a lump. She nodded her acknowledgment and nodded again. She noticed Hightower applauding and only by biting her cheek managed to remain composed. She stepped back, leaving Hightower again front and center. The commotion finally died down.

Hightower cleared her throat. "The CIB is earning statewide respect as the premier law enforcement organization in California. Ordinarily I would regret leaving important work undone. But if I am elected, my role as AG will provide an even greater opportunity to serve and protect the residents of our state. I have complete confidence Agent Lisbon will effectively lead the CIB in continuing our work." She paused until it was silent. "Are there questions?"

Several hands shot up. Hightower pointed to one man. "Doesn't the AG have to be an attorney?"

Hightower smiled. "I _am_ a licensed attorney in the State of California. I served as a Virginia prosecutor for 9 years before becoming a detective in law enforcement and relocating to California." She chose a woman next. "Yes?"

"Will the CIB's mission change under, um, Acting Director Lisbon?"

"No. There is no daylight between us." She handed the mic to Lisbon.

"Director Hightower and I have talked extensively. The CIB exists to enforce California laws working in cooperation with other law enforcement agencies. Our integrity and competence _must_ be above question, particularly after the corruption of the CBI. The CIB will continue to handle duties and cases which cross multiple jurisdictions or which require advanced law enforcement expertise and capabilities. The projects and initiatives set for this fiscal year will not change. Of course new opportunities and different challenges will arise in future years. The mission is fixed. The specific goals and methods for reaching them will change as needed." Lisbon handed the mic back to Hightower.

"You, near the back."

"What happens to the CIB if you're elected?"

She smiled. "My first challenge is to earn the trust and votes of California's citizens. I'll leave subsequent matters till after the election. Next?" she pointed to another.

"Does choosing you indicate a change in your party's law enforcement, immigration, and sanctuary policies?"

Hightower sobered. Intensely, "I don't set the party's platform. But make no mistake: I _always_ will strive to advance a safe, peaceful, law-abiding civil society, consistent with the will of the people, the law, and the legitimate authority of my position." She glanced at her watch. "If you'll excuse me, I have a press conference to attend with the governor." She smiled brilliantly, "Thank you for your attention. Dismissed."

Hightower vanished through the door at the front of the room. The crowd milled around and several employees approached Lisbon. Those who knew Lisbon simply congratulated her. Others introduced themselves before offering congratulations. Lisbon gradually made her way toward the back exit as the crowd thinned. Finally, ten feet from the door she was startled to see Jane, Cho and Minelli waiting for her alongside Rigsby and Van Pelt. LaRoche intercepted her before she got to them. He shook her hand, confused her by noting he was right after all, then disappeared. She approached her colleagues from CBI years.

"–Congratulations, Boss. –Knew I'd get to call you that again," Rigsby said happily.

"–You _so_ deserve this, Lisbon," Grace said with a quick embrace before stepping back. She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands and mumbled, "Sorry, it's just hormones."

Cho nodded his approval and shocked her by smiling, "–Long overdue."

"–You make me proud," Minelli said then added, "You always did," and turned away. Clearing his throat fooled no one about being choked up.

Jane was content to give her a hug and a kiss her on the cheek. He whispered, "I said you'd be remembered fondly – this life and next."

Lisbon thought her face would break if she smiled any wider. "Guys, I don't know what– Thank you, just – thank you."

After an awkward but happy moment, Cho stuck his hand out, "Congratulations. I need to get back."

Jane kissed her cheek again, said, "Tonight, Teresa," and followed Cho out.

"–Later, Boss." "–Welcome back." Rigsby and Van Pelt left.

"Well, Teresa, that leaves us," Minelli grinned. "Have a few minutes to shoot the breeze with an old cop?"

"Not that old, Virgil," she patted him on the arm. "C'mon." She led the way to her new office. It was adjacent to Hightower's and also opened into the anteroom occupied by Hightower's administrative specialist. Her eyes widened as she took it in for the first time. It was smaller but furnished almost as nicely as Hightower's. Minelli playfully whistled his appreciation and Lisbon blushed slightly. She didn't care about fancy trappings, but appreciated the subtle reinforcement of her position. Minelli stayed an hour, then left her to shoulder her new authority and responsibilities. It felt good.

 **FBI, Sacramento, Monday, 9:30 A.M.**

On Sunday Cho briefed them on his meetings with Abbott and with the other Federal national security agencies. They had the evening to study Singh's file on CIA Agent Peter Brock, killed in a car crash.

The team met Monday morning as soon as Cho and Jane got back from the CIB. Cho started by having Ojara summarize the information on Brock.

Ojara slid the file closer but didn't open it. From memory, "Brock was a CIA agent in good standing with 13 years' experience mostly stationed in the Middle East. The car crash occurred at the end of a month's vacation. He wasn't on assignment. No family or known friends near Sacramento. There's no indication why he'd have a rifle. He was competent with firearms but marksmanship or hunting weren't hobbies. Singh's team concluded the accident that killed him was random bad luck. A dump of phone and computer contacts turned up the expected interactions: Colleagues, relatives, friends, personal business. Overseas calls were to his usual CIA contacts. No other contact with foreigners. His lifestyle was consistent with his pay – no unexplained luxuries or lavish vacations, no large cash transfers in or out. There was surprisingly little credit card use in the past month but that's all." He spread his hands. "Nothing suspicious."

Cho countered, "Except he was in Sacramento with a sniper rifle the day before a terrorist attack."

Muhammad asked, "What about his beliefs? Did he feel strongly about Islam, Muslims, the Middle East?"

Hassan added, "Pro or con."

Ojara responded, "There's nothing in the file."

Jane rubbed his fingertips with his thumb. "And the rifle? If he knew about the attack, he would have contacted us. It wasn't needed to detonate the explosion. Why a rifle at all?"

Cho said dryly, "You're over-thinking it. Sniper rifles are for killing. Kill the terrorist? Before the attack? After? Kill him if he ran instead of going through with it?"

"Hm," Jane said, mulling that thought.

Singh's team already ruled the car crash wasn't an attack _on_ Brock. Researching whether Brock had a connection to terrorism was a totally different investigation. The rest of the meeting focused on how to answer that question. Cho summed up. "A foreign national illegally crossed into Texas, traveled to Sacramento and destroyed terminal A with an improvised bomb. We _assumed_ it was a straightforward jihad attack because of the MO, the Quran, and Al Qaeda's claim." He leaned forward. "The jihad scenario dead ended at every turn. The _lack_ of support for that theory could be our most important clue." He paused. "Motive. Means. Method. Was it only a jihad attack? Or were there other motives, other actors? We know the method but who had the means? How does Brock fit into a terrorist attack against US citizens on US soil – if at all? We have two weeks to get answers."

Cho assigned tasks. "Muhammad, Hassan, do a deep dive on Brock. Financials, school records, employee records, work history, health, everything. See if the Move It clerk recognizes him. Also see if you can find the vehicle the terrorist drove from El Paso.

"Ojara, Vega, you've got the in-person interviews on Brock. Beliefs, the company he kept, impressions of neighbors and friends. Let's find out what made Agent Brock tick.

"Wylie, find out who posted Al Qaeda's claim of credit for the attack. Find out who could get a credit card number and health records for a specific person. Include national security channels. Try face recognition on Brock and the Move It photo." The agents shifted uncomfortably at the thought Brock could be unsub#2. "Try to find out how they communicated."

Wylie's shoulders rose from tension. Abbott nixed talking with anyone outside the team about this assignment. He wouldn't have any help with the several tasks.

"Jane–"

Jane interrupted, "–I have some hunches to check out."

Cho paused but Jane didn't elaborate. _No surprise._ "Okay. I'll join you if you need to go out in the field." Cho ignored Jane's flash of annoyance. He'd promised Lisbon so Jane would have to live with it.

The team started gathering their things. They stopped when Jane said quietly, "This wasn't Al Qaeda or ISIS. The drone attacks against cities around the world were intended to restore their prestige. They'd want _that_ dominating the news. Even if the drones failed, an ordinary vehicle bombing wouldn't help them." He looked around the room. _"The second attack was in motion before we foiled the drones. Ergo: It was not Al Qaeda, not ISIS."_ He paused to let that sink in. "Who benefitted? Who would want a successful terrorist attack? _In Sacramento. At this time._ "

Cho broke the silence. "Get on with it." The team exited to tackle their assignments.

Vega caught up as Ojara reached his desk. She took the side chair. "We've got the interviews and field work on the terrorist's car. Brock first? That'll give Hassan and Muhammad time to ID the car."

The big man nodded. "Sure. I'll get us a flight to Dulles – in three hours? Hotel too." Brock lived near the CIA's Langley headquarters in the DC metro area. They'd need a couple of days for the interviews. If the terrorist's car was ID'd, they could fly to El Paso afterward to investigate who bought and pre-positioned it.

Vega volunteered, "I'll set up the interviews. We can talk strategy on the way."

"Fine. Let's grab lunch at the airport." She nodded and went to make calls. They left an hour later.

Hassan and Muhammad stopped at the break room for coffee before starting the grinding research work.

Hassan grumbled, "Too bad we're stuck here instead of out in the field."

She finished pouring coffee. "Brock's associates might be hinky about talking to Muslims if he had strong opinions. It makes sense Cho's having Ojara and Vega do the interviews." She glanced around to be sure she wouldn't be overheard. "It's crazy to think a CIA agent could be involved in a terrorist attack against the US."

Glumly, "Yeah." He shrugged. "We don't _know_ that's true unless we turn up a connection." He took a sip of coffee. "Which do you want, Brock or the car?"

"I'll take Brock's paper trail. Maybe I'll find something they can use for their interviews."

"I'll go through the motel videos and see if the same car shows up. Maybe I'll luck out and get make and model."

She gave him an impish grin. "If you're going to dream, dream big. Hope for a plate number too." Resigned to spending days in house, they headed for their desks.

Wylie almost walked into Jane as he returned with fresh tea.

"Whoa, Wylie," Jane said, gracefully sidestepping a collision.

Wylie halted blinking away his distraction. "Sorry, Jane," he mumbled.

"I need your help on a couple of hunches."

Wylie frowned. "Cho already has me doing a bunch of things. Heck, with the terrorist's phone trashed and nothing from Brock's equipment I have no idea how to figure out the communications," he complained, worrying he'd fail to work his usual tech magic.

Soothingly, "I won't need you till later. If my hunch pays off, it may even help with the communication question."

Wylie brightened and some of the tension left his shoulders. "That'd be great. I'm starting with the hacking anyway."

"Later then." Jane patted him on the back and retired to his couch to think.

It was early afternoon when Cho returned to the bullpen.

Jane stirred. "Hey, Cho. Where've you been?"

Cho took a breath and chose not to be annoyed at Jane's nosiness. "Mancini. The governor wants the FBI to release a statement that locals weren't involved in the attack."

Jane yawned, "And?"

"Abbott okayed it. Ease tensions."

Jane looked toward the TV that was muted, but constantly tuned to news. "That didn't take long." They paused to read the crawl.

' ... THE FBI CONFIRMED THAT LAST WEEK'S TERRORIST ATTACK WAS DONE BY A FOREIGN NATIONAL WHO ILLEGALLY CROSSED INTO TEXAS. FBI SPOKESMEN REFUSED FURTHER COMMENT ON THE ON-GOING INVESTIGATION ... HURRICANE DANIELLE IS PROJECTED TO REACH LANDFALL IN SOUTH CAROLINA THIS EVENING BEFORE TRAVELING NORTH. DOWNGRADED TO A CATEGORY 2 HURRICANE IT–"

Jane rose and took the visitor's chair by Cho's desk. "Walk through something with me." Cho looked over and nodded. "I don't recall a burner phone in Brock's effects."

"There wasn't one."

Eyes brilliant, "Whatever Brock was up to, it wasn't legal, wasn't official. He'd have a burner phone that couldn't be traced back to him. The car crash wasn't planned and he hadn't acted yet. He would've had it with him."

Cho countered, "Not with his things, not in the car."

With absolute conviction, "Either it fell out in the accident or was lifted by first responders." Cho frowned and Jane backpedaled. "Uh, probably not lifted, probably not a conspiracy." Cho nodded fractionally, relieved. "Cho, we need the crash site searched for that phone."

"Forensics already searched. Why will doing it again give a different result?" a point Jane had made countless times over the years.

"This time it will."

Cho leaned back and thought aloud. "The car rolled, it could have fallen out. Might have been crushed on the road. –If there was a phone."

"Cho!"

"We have Brock's effects. A bloodhound is our best bet."

"Even with no trail, just lying there?" Cho nodded. Jane stood, "Call someone and let's go."

"It's afternoon. Tomorrow."

Impatiently, "What if rain ruins things?"

Cho just looked at him. "It's summer. In Sacramento. And rain raises scent." Anticipating Jane's next question, "Good dogs can track a trail that's weeks old. Tomorrow." Cho turned away and looked up the phone number to arrange for a dog. Disgruntled, Jane finally left for a soothing cup of tea and the comfort of his couch.

 **Lisbon-Jane Home**

"I'm home, Jane," Lisbon called as she entered and closed the door. She shed badge, gun, and boots. "Jane?"

A belated, "In here," emanated from the back of the house. She followed his voice to his office where he sat at his desk using a computer.

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "Who are you and what've you done with Patrick Jane?"

He pressed a few keys to exit and power down. "Islamic studies." He rose and stretched, and noticed that twilight was fast becoming night. "You're late," he commented before giving her a kiss.

"It was my first day. There was a lot to do with Hightower handing off her work to me."

He motioned, ushering her out. "You change while I get dinner."

"You haven't eaten?"

He shook his head. "I got caught up in this. And I thought maybe we'd be going to dinner with Minelli."

"I asked, but he had to meet May at the airport." Her voice faded as she disappeared into the master bath. "She was visiting her mother."

Dinner was relaxed. Lisbon had a good day now that Hightower finally got the nod and started her campaign. Conversation was light. Though Jane was disappointed Cho refused to search for the hypothetical burner phone till the morrow, he was relieved the team was at last pursuing a more promising line of investigation into the terrorist attack. He and Lisbon would have a more regular schedule now that they were again working for organizations.

Just after they turned in Jane remembered to ask, "Teresa, tomorrow's the blood test yes?"

She rolled onto her side toward him, though he wasn't visible in the dark. "I hope this worked." She swallowed nervously, "At least we'll know tomorrow."

"You'll stop for the test before work?"

"Mmhm."

"And ... when will they have the results? Will Robinson call?"

"Late afternoon. Someone will call, maybe Robinson." She sighed softly, "I really hope I'm-" she couldn't say it, "that this worked even though it'd be crazy with taking this job."

He pulled her closer and idly stroked her hair. "Me too. And the CIB will work out somehow. No one is indispensable." She could feel him shrug and knew a grin was hidden by the dark, "I daresay pregnancy results in a pretty predictable absence - more than a lot of things."

She huffed but didn't mean it. Each was still smiling slightly when sleep prevailed.

Maybe.


	23. Chapter 23 - Determined

**Chapter 23: Determined**

 **Lisbon-Jane Home, Tuesday, Early Morning**

The sun just cleared the horizon as Lisbon finished dressing. She whispered, "Gotta go. Love you," to her sleeping husband, kissed his cheek and trailed her hand down his back in a caress. There was time to stop for the blood test and still get an early start at work.

Jane stirred contentedly as her affection penetrated the mists of sleep. He again loved and was loved – a miracle unimaginable for ten interminable years hunting a monster, followed by exile. Warmth washed over him at the thought they might be pregnant. (He resolutely ignored a frisson of anxiety.) Muzzy recollections of yesterday triggered intense relief. His Lisbon, his Teresa would be safe heading the CIB while still working in the law enforcement she loved. He dared to think a happy future was possible. Maybe probable. They'd prevailed against odds a con man would shun.

Light brightened with the advancing day, knowledge tempering hope as he gradually woke. Conception occurred in only one of five IVF attempts for couples – women, really – in their 40's. He resolved to wait for the results and, meanwhile, just get on with the day.

 **FBI, Sacramento, Morning**

"This afternoon," Cho preempted when Jane entered the bullpen, adding, "Local dogs are deployed to find a missing child. LAPD will be here by noon with one of theirs."

"Ah." Jane tamped down his impatience and backtracked to the break room. Tea in hand he paused at Wylie's desk. The young man nodded but didn't look away from the monitor. "Wylie, did we get a trace of Brock's movements the week before he died?"

Wylie slid a stapled sheaf of papers over without looking. "Here. GPS coordinates every 15-minutes from his phone. Plotted on maps."

Jane took the sheaf, stepped away, then turned back. "Can you clean up photos of the terrorist?"

Wylie sighed, "Not right now. Maybe Muhammad can help." Muhammad was adept with computers even though she wasn't an IT specialist.

"Thanks." He settled down to peruse Brock's movements.

A while later Jane followed Muhammad and Hassan to the break room as they got coffee. "Got a minute?" Both nodded, happy for a distraction from tedious background research and hotel parking lot videos.

Jane motioned the two agents to join him at a table. "Confirm something. This printout shows Brock's movements from cell phone GPS locations. Cell phones are tracked even if they're off, right?" Both nodded. "It shows he stayed in one place for two days in Arizona."

Hassan demurred, "His _phone_ did. These aren't resorts, are they, where someone would naturally stay awhile?"

"No."

"He could've left it in his hotel room while he did – whatever."

"Hmm," Jane nodded. Brock would have had time to drive to El Paso and arrange for a car for the terrorist. He flipped a few pages further into the report. "Later, the phone again stays mainly one place close to the Iraqi farmer. Then he drove to Sacramento, rented a car, and took a room."

Muhammad speculated, "He'd need a rental car if he left the moving van for the terrorist to pick up." She winced at the thought a CIA agent might have facilitated an attack that killed 80 Americans.

"The phone was with him when he crashed." Jane looked up. "So it's likely he only left it behind when he didn't want to be tracked?"

Hassan, "Yeah." Muhammad nodded.

"Okay." Jane pulled several photos from under the printout. "And here's our terrorist." Technically he was just the _suspected_ terrorist but Cho's team didn't have much doubt he was the right guy. He spread out the photos. "See this mark on his upper arm?" A small dark patch showed below the left sleeve of his t-shirt.

"A bruise," Muhammad said confidently.

Hassan, "Or birthmark?"

Jane shuffled through more photos. "Here's a photo three days later. A bruise would fade. The mark hasn't changed." He pointed to a third photo. "Still the same after another day."

Hassan frowned. "Birthmark then. Or – tattoo?"

"Muhammad, can you make the photos bigger, sharper?"

She glanced toward Wylie then looked back. "Sure." Slowly, "If it _is_ a tattoo, that's puzzling."

"Why?"

Hassan jumped in. "For a Sunni, tattoos are haram - forbidden by Islamic law." He looked puzzled, "I can't see guys that zealous flouting the religion."

Eyes bright, "Which implies–?"

Muhammad took a breath, "You say this wasn't Al Qaeda or ISIS. Maybe he's not Sunni at all."

"And that means–?"

She shook her head slowly. "Shia aren't as strict about tattoos. Iran is the big Shia sponsor of terrorism. Does that make any sense?"

Hassan interjected, "We know Iran has agents in the US. Some tried to assassinate the Saudi ambassador in DC a few years back. Why have this guy travel to the US and launch an attack when Iranian agents are already here?"

Jane half-smiled, "Those are very good questions. –Muhammad, we need to know what that mark is and if it means anything."

"I'm on it!" she exclaimed, eager to pursue Jane's hunch. She'd finish the background research afterward.

"Jane," Cho paused at the break room door, "Let's go."

 **Interstate Near Sacramento, Late Afternoon**

The afternoon was an exercise in boredom. Cho and Jane grabbed fast food takeout on the forty minute drive to the crash site. Then they cooled their heels till the LAPD handler and his dog arrived an hour late, ironically because an accident snarled traffic.

A local deputy sheriff described the crash particulars. A driver changing lanes cut Brock off, forcing him off the road at 70 mph. Brock's sedan veered onto the shoulder then plowed through underbrush down a steep slope, rolled and wrapped around a tree. A quarter mile stretch had to be searched.

The dog alerted near the tree, raising hopes for fast results. The deputy quashed that noting it was where Brock had been pulled from the wreck before being taken to the morgue. No cell phone. With no trail to follow, finding the phone would require searching the entire area by tracing a path no more than a few feet wide. The handler and dog walked an ever-widening spiral path outward from the crash.

The deep gully blocked cell phone reception. Cho hiked back to the interstate so he could use the time managing his agents and working with FBI offices monitoring several emerging terrorist threats in the region. Jane rested in the shade of a tree, subtly watching the search to be sure nothing was overlooked. The day was hot, but blessedly not humid. Handler and dog took a break when the spiral was fifty feet out from the quarter mile crash path. The handler reluctantly resumed the search when Cho and Jane insisted.

Success! The long awaited alert came just after 6 p.m. Cho carefully picked up the burner cell phone in an evidence bag and sealed it. Notwithstanding the shattered screen and general battering, maybe they could read the log of calls and texts. At minimum, they hoped for the phone's number which also could get the FBI a dump of phone calls made and received by going to the telephone carrier.

Jane tried calling Lisbon as soon as he had a signal, grimacing when it went to voice mail. Cho eyed Jane curiously but didn't ask. Night had fallen by the time they reached the FBI. Jane left immediately with a distracted wave goodbye.

 **CIB, Late Afternoon**

Lisbon leaned back and stretched, glad to have finished her last meeting as the workday was nearly over.

"Director–" Miranda Ortiz, Hightower's – now her – administrative assistant, poked her head into the office, "Senior Agent Van Pelt asked if you have time to meet?"

She sighed, "Sure. Did she say why?"

"Just that it's personal." Lisbon nodded and Ortiz withdrew. A moment later Ortiz announced by intercom, "She'll be up in ten minutes."

Lisbon organized the folders on her desk. She stacked some on the credenza behind her, filed others, and left several that demanded immediate attention to the side. In the '90's when office computers spread like wildfire, highschool computer classes diligently prepared students for the 'paperless office.' _Still waiting_ , she thought wryly.

Ortiz knocked softly and Lisbon motioned them in. Lisbon's cell phone chimed just as Van Pelt entered. Ortiz stepped out, closing the door behind her.

Lisbon glanced at the screen and turned to the side as she answered. "Lisbon." Van Pelt hesitated, then quietly took a chair in front of the desk. Lisbon focused on the call, posture tense. "... Yes, please. ... I understand. Is – is there a reason why?" She frowned and swallowed. "How long before another– ... I see. ... Yes, I will. I'll call." Woodenly, "Thank you." She ended the call. Lips pursed tightly she turned back toward her desk. "Van Pelt." Lisbon tightly closed her eyes a moment then said, "You asked to meet?"

"I wanted to discuss my – Uh, boss, is everything all right?" Her brow creased in concern.

Lisbon unconsciously squared her shoulders, eyes resolutely on Van Pelt's face. Away from her pregnant belly. Clipped, "Yes. Go ahead."

Van Pelt blinked and regrouped. "My obstetrician recommends I start maternity leave in two weeks." She looked to the side then back. Apologetically, "That's earlier than I planned. Because it's twins."

Face expressionless, Lisbon fished a folder from her drawer. Flipping it open, "Where do you stand on your cases?"

"We're wrapping up both open cases. The confession and supporting evidence were forwarded to the DA today for the Anders murder. We uncovered definitive evidence on the Khang case. We'll bring the suspect in tomorrow and I think we'll get a confession. Even if he doesn't cop to it, the ADA says we've got enough for a conviction. Either way it's closed."

Lisbon made a few notes. She looked up. Emotionlessly, "How long do you expect to be out?"

The redhead shifted uncomfortably. "I'm due in three months." She tipped her head uncertainly, "And three months after, consistent with maternity leave provisions." As the silence lengthened, she added apologetically, a frown flickering over her lovely face at her uncertainty, "It takes a little time before I can be back in shape for the field afterward," her voice trailed off, "you know."

Lisbon took a breath and deliberately softened her tone, "Of course. Is one of your agents capable of leading the team while you're out? Who do you recommend?"

Relieved that the conversation was going better, "Richardson. He's the most experienced and is a solid detective."

Kindly, "It sounds like everything's well in hand. What's left?"

Animated, "We're helping ADA Smith prepare for trials on some earlier collars. And he'll be prepping Richardson and Alameda for their testimony." She shrugged and grinned wryly. "And there's always the paperwork. I'll have it done before I leave."

"I wouldn't expect anything less. Human Resources has all this set up?"

"I meet with HR tomorrow. I called earlier and it's all standard stuff, so long as you're okay with it."

She nodded. "I am. I'll pay closer attention to your unit while you're out." She paused, then, "Anything else?"

Van Pelt looked uncertain, "I was wondering how it works when I get back. I mean, I just pick up where I left off, right?"

Lisbon exhaled and leaned back. Thoughtfully, "You expect to be out for 5-1/2 months. If Richardson does well, will he want his own team?"

She straightened in dismay. "I'm not sure. I – I thought I'd be able to keep my team together."

Gently, "As you know, the CIB is really short of senior agents. If he does well subbing for you and is interested, I'd have to seriously consider him."

Anxiously, "What if I came back sooner? Or, maybe I could resume lead working from home, part time or something."

"You can't be in the field until a certain amount of time after delivering. The CIB needs and appreciates your talents on whatever terms you're able. But you have to _be here_ to lead a team." Gently, "Grace, I know you want your agents to have the opportunities they've earned."

"Yeah."

"It will work out."

Van Pelt drew a deep breath. "Thanks, boss. That's only fair. My team's really come together and I just thought - hoped everything would stay the same till I got back." She rose and left, leaving the door half open.

Lisbon stared at doorway, gaze unfocused. After a moment she slumped forward, hiding her face in her hands. Breathing ragged, she tried to accept the disappointment. _Not pregnant._ Not just another failure after another monthly cycle. IVF was supposed to be the solution. She lifted her phone, finger hovering over Patrick's picture for speed dial. She put it down. It felt like her heart was torn apart. She didn't have it in her to call, to set aside her devastation to comfort him in his disappointment. Or face his blame for not conceiving. Again.

After an unknown period she scrubbed her face with her hands and pulled the file folders over. There was always work. She could be useful that way. Even if _only_ that way. She angrily brushed aside tears and buried her feelings in work.

 **Jane and Lisbon**

Jane broke speed limits, staying just shy of speeds that'd get him pulled over. He swung by the house and found it dark and empty. Repeated calls went to voice mail.

Twenty minutes later the elevator silently opened on Teresa's floor at the CIB. Jane paused in the office doorway, unnoticed by his wife. It didn't take special skill to see her despair as she furiously keyed notes into her computer. A cleaning cart clattered off the elevator. Startled, Lisbon looked up.

"Jane!" she gasped, drawing back. She closed her eyes and growled, "You scared the life out of me." She scowled, hands clenched. "How, how did you get in here? If you broke in–"

Quietly, "Teresa, Hightower issued me an ID," he said holding it up.

He walked over. Lisbon looked down, unwilling to look at him, unwilling to read what was in his eyes.

He spared her having to say it. Softly, "We didn't get the news we wanted."

Lisbon swallowed, face turned away, and shook her head. Jane took her upper arms and gently pulled her to her feet before wrapping her in a hug. Her body was stiff, unyielding and she hid her face against his shoulder. "Talk to me, love. We're in this together." She shook her head slightly again, a helpless sound escaping her throat. He drew back a little and carefully tipped her chin up so he could see her eyes ... and she could see his. And she read ... warmth, comfort, empathy. There wasn't a hint of disappointment or blame toward her, only the sadness she'd seen in the years he spent mired in grief for Angela and Charlotte. Her chest ached in sympathy, but also love and gratitude that _he didn't blame her_.

"I hoped this would work. I'm disappointed _for us. But not in you."_ He pressed her head back against his chest and kissed her hair. He whispered, _"_ _Never_ _in you."_

She sniffed, exhaling a shuddering breath. Voice small, "I was so sure it would work. Had worked." She finally relaxed and melted against him.

"C'mon, it's late. Let's go home." Jane turned off the computer and picked up her purse and jacket. He walked her out, arm around her shoulders. They took the Citroen rather be alone in separate vehicles for the short drive.

A few hours later bedtime was upon them after a simple dinner, glass of wine, and quiet jazz while huddling together on the couch. Lisbon sat up first and half turned to face her husband.

"I want to try again."

Jane's forehead creased in worry. "Is that–"

Determined, "I want a family and we have three more embryos. Patrick, nothing gets better by waiting. I'll call Robinson and set up another transfer as soon as possible."

Drained and exhausted, a welter of emotions flitted across his face. "If that's what you want to do. It's hardest on you." She nodded. He whispered, "I promise we will have a family. One way or another."


	24. Chapter 24 - Progress

**Chapter 24: Progress**

Cho owed Abbott answers in two weeks. Who was responsible for the airport bombing? Was the CIA agent connected to the attack? Time hurtled by with too much to do across too many fronts.

 **FBI, Sacramento**

After dropping Lisbon off, Jane walked into the FBI bullpen and took the chair next to Cho's desk. Cho glanced up, then looked more closely.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." Jane regretted that truth though not in a way Cho would know about.

"Something did." An underlying sadness that had vanished after Jane's CBI days was back. "Lisbon okay?"

Mask in place, "She's fine." He sipped his tea, "What did we get from Brock's burner phone?"

Cho accepted the deflection. "Brock's fingerprints. Call and text logs were deleted."

Sharply, "We can get those from the phone carrier, right?"

Cho nodded. "Meta data. Contact logs and GPS trace. Not content."

"How soon?"

"Afternoon."

"Mm." Jane swallowed the last of his tea, rose and strolled to Muhammad's desk. Muhammad flashed a smile then printed a page and handed it to Jane. Hassan joined them for a few minutes of animated conversation. Jane walked back to Cho trailed by the two agents.

"What?"

"Our terrorist had a tattoo. Maybe Hassan's professor friend will have insights." He showed the printed photo to Cho. "Preferably in concert with Hassan and Muhammad."

Cho turned to the young man. "Where do you stand on the terrorist's car?"

"I'm pretty sure I've got it. One matched each hotel security video. It was towed from his Sacramento motel three days after the attack. No one claimed it. I'm meeting a tech team there to get the VIN and prints." His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

Jane grinned at the good news then noted, "It's near the professor's office."

"Muhammad?"

She frowned slightly, hoping not to be left out. "I finished the basics. I'm back to 2015 with credit card purchases."

"Getting anything?"

She shook her head. "If he was involved, it wasn't for money. I can't speak to the Middle East, but no radical contacts here in the US. The only odd thing – he hardly used his card in the two weeks before the attack."

Jane's hunches usually paid off and Muhammad and Hassan could use a break from their dull assignments. Cho waved them off. "Go."

The tech wizard exhaled in relief when Jane disappeared with Hassan and Muhammad. Without their distraction he could _concentrate_. Wylie was making progress on the work Cho had assigned. Recovering Brock's burner cell yesterday meant yet more work but it was their most promising lead. _Jane delivers again. How does he do it?_ He wanted to finish his current task by the time the Brock files came in. They were getting the GPS trace from when it was put into service three weeks ago. And they'd have the phone numbers from contacts Brock was careful to make on a phone not linked to him.

 **Sacramento Restaurant**

Rigsby and Van Pelt claimed a table in a nearby restaurant and ordered. They'd timed their arrival after the lunch rush.

He sipped his coffee and fondly studied his wife's face. "Hey, Grace, everything okay?"

"I'm tired. My new norm."

Soothingly, "Only a few more months."

Instant irritation. "A few more months of feeling like a whale." She grimaced. "Looking like one too–" Carrying twins was like enjoying the ninth month of pregnancy for the entire third trimester.

"–Hey!" he objected gently, taking her hand where it rested on the table. Months ago he had assured her that, pregnant with his children, she could never be anything but beautiful to him.

She pouted and relented. "Sorry, Wayne." She continued her thought, "After I deliver you think four kids – three still in diapers – won't be tiring? We'll be tired for _years_."

"Happy tired. –You said HR blessed your plan, so just one more week. And then you'll be interviewing nannies to help when Min goes back to school." He nodded his thanks to the server and hungrily attacked his sandwich.

A trifle sadly, "Yeah."

Muffled by food, "What's bothering you?"

She waved it off. "Everything's in flux." She chewed and swallowed, "Remember how cold Lisbon was when I met with her yesterday? I think I know why."

"Which is?"

"They're doing IVF. If that call was from her doctor," she swallowed a lump having nothing to do with food, "maybe it didn't work. No wonder she'd act that way, especially – you know," she said motioning toward her belly.

Rigsby sighed. "I wish they were having an easier time of it." He looked hopeful. "Uh, this is a stretch but would they consider adoption? I mean, Min–"

"I don't think it works that way, at least not unless they give up on IVF." She shook her head, "When I asked, Min was trying to find the ideal parents for her baby – young, married, educated, Korean. A couple living nearby so her aunt can be involved. Open adoption, the whole nine yards."

"Huh. The more requirements, the harder the search. I hope she gets what she wants."

Thoughtfully, "I hope she gets what she and her baby _need._ " Meal over, they left to get back to work.

 **DC Suburb**

Vega hustled to keep up with Ojara's longer stride. They gratefully slid into the rental car, out of the heat. He turned on the ignition to get air conditioning, but didn't immediately pull away. Ojara sipped the soda he'd left and made a face at the mouthful of flat, warm liquid.

Vega frowned as she skimmed notes from the interview. "Yet another colleague who swears Brock was a dedicated agent and patriot. No way that squares with helping a terrorist."

Amused, his teeth flashed brilliant white against his skin. "Not so fast, Vega." Being straightforward was Vega's strength. And weakness. Time and experience would provide the needed shades of gray. Continuing before she could comment, "Dedicated agent, patriot, yes. What did that mean to Brock? What did _he_ think the job or patriotism required of him?"

She huffed sharply. "With being divorced, no kids, and overseas a lot, the Agency pretty much was his life." She tilted her head thinking back to her conversation with Muhammad that morning. "Muhammad says Brock had no unexplained deposits or lavish spending. The job could be the key."

He put the car in gear. "I'll push that angle in our next interviews, see if Brock got creative beyond following orders."

She glanced at the GPS navigation screen. "How far?"

"Thirty miles." Ojara grimaced. "That could be two hours in DC traffic."

She settled back and opened her computer. "I'll catch up on the 302's," the factual written reports on their interviews. Hopefully the coming interviews would illuminate why Brock was in Sacramento on the eve of a terrorist attack.

 **University of California, Berkeley**

"Professor Ahmed, thank you for helping. You called about the photo of that tattoo?" asked Hassan. Ahmed nodded and ushered them into his office. Hassan, Muhammad, and Jane took chairs in front of the desk. Jane laid several books about the Middle East that he'd borrowed on the professor's desk, quietly murmuring his thanks.

Ahmed turned the computer monitor so all could see. "The tattoo is blurred but you can make out three words." Pointing to the flowing, beautiful script, "God's blessed garden – garden blessed by God." Hassan and Muhammad made out the words only to exchange frowns, but held their tongues out of respect as the professor continued.

Jane's squinted at the screen. "I don't see 'Allah.'" 'Allah' written in Arabic was familiar from the books he'd been reading on the Middle East.

Ahmed explained, "You are correct. This," he pointed, "is a word meaning 'god,' not using God's name 'Allah.'"

"Okay." Jane nodded.

Ahmed continued. "There are inconsistencies. Assuming I correctly make out the tattoo, it's not Arabic." Muhammad and Hassan looked relieved. He switched screens and showed a different image. "This is Arabic." He switched back. "News reports said Al Qaeda claimed responsibility for the attack, but this is Farsi. An Arab, a Sunni Muslim is unlikely to tattoo himself in Farsi." Silence filled the moment as the FBI visitors considered the implications.

Muhammad spoke, "What about the tattoo's meaning?"

"Even more perplexing. 'God's blessed garden.' It sounds like a place name. There is no city with that name so I checked towns and villages. There are none in any Arab area. However," he unrolled a large map on his desk and pointed, "there is a small Iranian village of that name!"

Silence descended again. Hassan cleared his throat and asked, "Might it refer to something else?"

Ahmed released the map and it rolled up and off his desk. Distractedly as he bent to get the map, "Of course. It could be anything. A song, a literary reference, an in-joke." He heavily sat in his chair behind the desk. "The phrase isn't widely known linked to anything else so far as I know." He spread his hands. "That's all I can offer."

Hassan summarized slowly, "So the translation is 'God's blessed garden,' which matches a village in Iran. Even if the tattoo doesn't refer to that village, it's in Farsi, not Arabic. That makes our suspected terrorist unlikely to be a Sunni Muslim associated with Al Qaeda. Or ISIS."

Ahmed nodded. "Very unlikely. I hope this helps."

"Very much, thank you."

Hassan, Muhammad, and Jane each shook his hand. Ahmed pressed a half-dozen new books into Jane's hands before they left.

 **FBI, Sacramento, Very Early Morning**

Wylie yawned, leaned back and rolled his shoulders to relieve tension from hours in front of a monitor. He jumped when his phone rang. "Wylie. ... Oh, hey, Michelle." He glanced around to verify he was alone. "I've got you on speaker."

"Are you home?"

"In the bullpen. Just me."

Cognizant of the three-hour time difference, "You're burning the midnight oil."

He glanced at the time on his monitor and grinned, "That was an hour ago. –What's up?"

"Just feeling out of the loop. Ojara and I have been doing interviews forever."

"Getting anything?"

"Everyone says Brock was a patriot, a dedicated agent. He didn't have much of a life outside of work."

Wylie's snorted, "Like we should talk!"

"Yeah. Ojara's wondering whether Brock was _so_ into it that he lost perspective, maybe crossed some lines. Nobody's said anything concrete, just a hint here and there. How 'bout you?"

He smothered a yawn. "I just finished my assignments..."

"And?" impatient as always.

"Sketchy but nothing definite. –Someone _inside_ the US put the message on Al Qaeda's website. The account was closed after the post claiming the attack. Fake name and identity but for sure it doesn't match past patterns. I ran Brock's photo through facial recognition software. The beard, cap and glasses on the man who rented the van hid too many details for a positive match but he wasn't ruled out. And the hospital and credit card IT security confirmed the Iraqi farmer's records were hacked, along with a lot of other people. Could be coincidence–"

"–Or camouflage," Vega finished. "Someone with tech savvy was busy."

Around a yawn, "There's more. Jane figured Brock had to have a burner phone and bugged Cho to search the crash site till they found it. Once Cho gets warrants we can get the names of his contacts. Too bad the terrorist's cell was trashed so we can't confirm whether Brock contacted him."

"We're almost done interviewing. Did Hassan get the VIN for the terrorist's car?"

Enthusiastically, "Yep. Prints in the car matched the terrorist's prints. Hassan is trying to find the El Paso dealership that sold the car."

"Gosh, that'd save a lot of time in Texas." The conversation lapsed.

"How's working with Ojara?" Wylie asked hesitantly.

"He's good and I'm learning a lot. I'm tired of being on the road though."

"Good. Um, I mean–"

Softly, "I miss you too, Jason. Just a few more days till I'm back."

 **CIB, Evening**

Jane exited the elevator and shifted the books more securely under one arm. Two stacked take-out beverages were nestled in his other hand. He deliberately made noise as he approached the Director's suite, and paused at Lisbon's doorway.

No matter how much they wanted to get on with it, they had to wait a bit before another embryo transfer could be done. Lisbon distracted herself by sublimating her frustration in work; the enormous amount accomplished was almost incidental. Tired of spending evenings alone, Jane started reading in her office after work each day until she was ready to leave, something she could accept without feeling crowded or compromised in her new role. The routine echoed years of companionship at the CBI, a quiet comfort for both.

"Hey," he greeted when Lisbon looked up. He put one cup on her desk and the other on a side table by the couch.

"Hey, yourself." She automatically took stock of her husband while immediately uncovering and sipping the fresh coffee. Reassured all was well she gratefully savored her beverage as she took a break.

Answering her unspoken question, "We're making progress. Thought I'd read a little before getting take out, if you're going to be a while."

"That's good." She nodded at the files in front of her. "I've got a few more hours."

Jane sat then swung his legs up onto the couch. He chose a book and set the others on the floor. A few minutes later he looked up. "What?" Lisbon was leaned back in her chair studying him rather than resuming work.

"How's working with Cho's team?"

Jane let the open book flop down on his chest. He half shrugged, "They're coming along. Wylie's smitten with Vega but that isn't keeping them from fast becoming better agents. There's enough tension between Muhammad and Hassan to cut with a knife–"

Frowning, "Trouble?"

"The opposite – romance if they'd just get out of their own way. Muhammad has to let herself _see_ Hassan instead of the stereotype she railed against growing up. Hassan," he smirked, "has to get braver."

"Rigsby redux," she snorted softly. "And, uh, Ojara?"

A real grin this time, "Ojara ... is a mystery. Smooth, lets nothing out."

She returned his grin. "Losing your touch?"

Scornfully, "Of course not. He's good, but I'll figure him out eventually."

"You like them?" finally asking what she wanted to know.

Desultory shrug, "They're okay. Not like our CBI team."

"Hey. We weren't a real team at first. It took a while before _you_ decided you even wanted a team."

He bit his lower lip, considering. "They're a good group. Cho's doing well making us into a real team."

She warmed to hear the 'us.' Softly, "You're happy working with them?"

He nodded slowly. "I think I am." More briskly, "Plus I'll also work cases with Rigsby and Van Pelt. Things changed – had to – but this is more than I hoped for after," he swallowed, "after the CBI," preferring the euphemism to mentioning the serial killer.

Lisbon glanced down at the folders. "Y'know what, let's get out of here, eat dinner without plastic forks for a change."

He immediately rose. "Your wish is my command," accompanied by a glorious smile for tearing herself from work. She rolled her eyes. "What's your pleasure, my dear?"

Lisbon would never voice the, 'You are,' she was thinking. She simply said, "Anything you want," reminding herself to appreciate what she (finally) had.

 **El Paso, Mid-morning**

Vega gritted her teeth as the rental car jounced along a dusty, rutted dirt road in the hot Texas sun. A half hour off the main highway Ojara finally pulled to a stop at a small, shabby wooden house. An old pick-up truck was parked in front. The dust settled as they got out and stretched. Scrawny chickens squawked and scattered. A grizzled mutt barked a few times and bristled warily a safe distance back. The screen door swung open for a thirties-something man in worn jeans and faded shirt, then banged shut.

The agents held up their badges. "FBI Agents Ojara and Vega. Are you Manuel Garcia? We have a couple of questions."

" _Si. Por que_?"

With a glance at Ojara Vega stepped forward and replied in Spanish, _"We need to know about a car registered to you. White, 2007 Chevy sedan_." Ojara stood just behind her, paying attention to the conversation but also keeping a eye out for any other activity.

" _Okay_." The man motioned them to come up onto the porch. Once out of the sun he explained, " _I don't have that car no more. I sold it a month ago_."

" _Who bought it?"_

" _Salter's Used Cars."_

 _"Why is it still registered in your name?"_

 _"How should I know? He paid me and I gave him the title. He said he'd file the transfer. Is this gonna jack me up?"_

 _"No, not you. Por favor, do you have a receipt or anything from the sale?"_

Garcia frowned slightly. " _I'll get it._ " He ducked into the house and emerged a few minutes later. He handed Vega a folded receipt from Salter's Used Cars.

Vega compared the VIN to the one in her phone. " _Is it all right if I take a photo of this?_ " Garcia nodded and she snapped a picture with her cell. They thanked Garcia and were on their way.

Two hours and 40 miles put them at Salter's Used Cars, a business converted decades ago from a gas station and auto service shop. A young teen let them into the small office then disappeared through a door to the automotive shop. The attached bell jangled as the door slowly clicked shut. An ancient window air conditioner ran noisily off to the side, nonetheless delivering welcome cool air. Salter turned out to be a short, wiry white man with a permanent baked on tan of some 70 years. He stepped around the desk and squinted up at Ojara.

Ojara opened. "Mr. Salter?" When Salter nodded, "We're FBI Agents Ojara and Vega. We have a few questions about one of your cars."

"Wait." They kept their badges and ID out while Salter peered closely at them, oddly looking off to the side rather than straight on. He finally nodded and stepped back. "Okay. What's this about?"

"You bought a white 2007 Chevy sedan from Manuel Garcia about a month ago."

"Did I?" He scratched his head. "A lotta cars come through here."

"This may refresh your memory." Ojara nodded for Vega to show him the receipt on her phone. Salter squinted and looked at it off to the side.

"Uh, okay. Guess I did."

"Who did you sell it to and when?"

Salter frowned, lower lip pushed out stubbornly. "Don't know his name. The fella just asked for a car that runs good. Didn't care about age, make, or looks. That's the one he bought."

Vega interjected pointedly, "Did you register it to the new owner?"

Salter cleared his throat. "I can't recall. May not have got around to it."

Ojara took a half pace closer, towering over the dealer. Bluntly, "You have a record of off-the-books sales and tax evasion. We don't care, if you help us ID the buyer. Otherwise, Salter's Used Cars might face some legal questions."

Salter grimaced. After a moment, "Yeah, he bought that Chevy – before I could get it registered to me. Then he didn't care about registering it to himself." He cleared his throat and looked down. "He paid cash, took the keys and drove off. I wasn't gonna chase him."

"When?"

"Uh, lemme see that receipt again?" Vega showed him the invoice picture. "He bought it three days after Garcia sold it to me. July 31."

Vega, crisply, "Description of the buyer?"

The old man's forehead creased in a frown. "White, 40 to 50 I guess. Brown hair, beard, glasses. Jeans and a white shirt. That's all I remember."

"Do you recognize him in any of these photos?" Vega had loaded head-shots of Brock, the moving van man, and five others who looked similar.

He swallowed audibly. "Uh, I don't see so good, 'specially not faces or reading. I really can't tell."

"Try."

He licked his lips and clenched his jaw. Again looking slightly off to the side, Salter studied each picture as Vega brought it up. After the last he shook his head and shrugged uneasily. "I can't say. They all look alike."

Ojara tried another angle. "Your helper. Did he see the buyer?"

Salter squinted in concentration. "It was during the week. Jesse was at school."

"Mind if we ask him?"

Salter snorted. "Go ahead." Salter had told the truth about his helper. Another lead chased down, another dead end.

Two hours later they were on a flight to Sacramento.

 **FBI, Sacramento, Thursday, Early Afternoon**

Cho waited as all team members took seats in the conference room, then began. "Tomorrow I meet with Abbott. Jane, too, at Abbott's request. Who was responsible for the airport attack? Was Brock involved?" Each agent provided his piece of the puzzle.

Twenty five days ago an unidentified subject bought a used Chevy for cash. That man or another unsub ordered fertilizer, constructed the improvised bomb using a rented moving van, and delivered it to Sacramento in time for the attack. The fertilizer order was made in the name of an Iraqi immigrant farmer who died before the attack. The false attribution was made after his health records and credit card number were hacked, again by parties unknown. The moving van rental photo could neither be confirmed nor ruled out as Brock.

Three days after the unsub bought the Chevy, the terrorist crossed the El Paso border and used that car to drive to Sacramento. The terrorist who died in the explosion was an Islamic radical who traveled from the Middle East to commit the attack. Parties unknown went to the trouble of making it look like an attack by Al Qaeda. The terrorist was probably a Shia Muslim from Iran who was not connected to Al Qaeda or ISIS.

Cho summed up. "For the first question, we have the photo of an unidentified Middle East Muslim male who died in the attack. Though consistent with a terrorist attack by an Islamic radical, he was not Al Qaeda or ISIS." He grudgingly admitted the obvious. "We're no closer than we were two weeks ago to knowing who _was_ behind this, who paid for the trip and bomb."

Jane spoke for the first time. "We know a bit more. It was important to whomever arranged this that the attack occur in Sacramento. It was important Al Qaeda appeared to be responsible. And it was important we knew the terrorist was from overseas, not a radicalized person living in the US."

Cho exhaled in frustration. "That doesn't get us anywhere."

Jane just said, "Patience."

After a moment Cho continued. "Question number two: Was Brock involved? Probably. His burner phone puts him near El Paso before the terrorist arrived and near the van rental location at the right time. He died in a car crash with a sniper rifle in his trunk the day before the attack with no other reason for being there."

Muhammad said dourly, "So he was in some of the same states. That's very weak circumstantial evidence. It'd never stand up in court."

Hassan countered, "It won't have to, they're dead. We just need to understand what happened and why."

Cho continued, "We don't know motive. Was he helping the terrorist? Or was Brock shadowing him to stop the attack, for some reason not working with the FBI?" Cho nodded to Ojara and Vega, "You interviewed his colleagues and friends. Thoughts?"

Vega grimaced and said, "Everyone we interviewed said Brock was a patriot and dedicated CIA agent. It's incredible to think he'd facilitate a terrorist attack against the US. I think he was tracking the terrorist to stop him. Someone else must have bought the car and made the bomb."

Jane objected mildly, "You're creating a third unsub out of thin air. Occam's razor suggests not." Vega blinked in confusion but Ojara weighed in before she could ask.

Ojara said carefully, "We don't know how Brock viewed his patriotic duty. Anything's possible if _he_ thought his actions were patriotic."

Wylie straightened, jarring the table and blurted, "There's a way to tell if Brock was in contact with the terrorist!"

Muhammad, "The terrorist's cell was blown up so we don't know his number. How–"

"–We have every number _Brock_ called. The phone carriers can tell what towers served the phones Brock called." Excitedly, "It'll be gross since towers can handle calls 20 to 40 miles away. But at least we'll know if Brock called someone in the same areas as the terrorist traveled around the US."

Cho asked curtly, "How fast can you get that?"

"An hour?"

"Go." Wylie hurriedly rose and left.

Gaze unfocused, Jane said into the silence, "What if Brock was helping the terrorist _and_ intended to stop him?"

Cho said tightly, "Explain."

Jane sipped his tea, then glanced at everyone around the table. "Granted an Islamic radical carried out a successful attack for his own reasons. But the larger picture has everything to do with the US. A Sacramento attack required him to travel a thousand miles, by-passing larger, better-known cities. Al Qaeda was framed as sponsoring the attack when it had not. Someone not only paid for the terrorist's trip from overseas, the terrorist apparently was from Iran, a nation particularly opaque to US intelligence." Jane sat straighter. "Who benefits from a successful terrorist attack in Sacramento by a foreign Al Qaeda radical? Answer that and you'll know who's responsible." Cho drew a breath to object, but then stayed silent.

"As for Brock," Jane continued, "what if the goal was to raise alarm about radical Islamic terrorism in the US or terrorists crossing our southern border – but without the attack succeeding? Brock, alone or with help, hacked the Al Qaeda website and the farmer's health and credit card records, and provided the car and bomb. He could use the sniper rifle to foil the attack. He could kill the terrorist who," Jane grimaced, "did after all intend to kill Americans. Or Brock could wreck the van by shooting out the tires or something. Either way, a van loaded with improvised explosives is discovered and the public is alarmed without the attack succeeding. Brock's accident was the unforeseeable variable. He crashed and couldn't stop the attack." He looked around. "Et voila! Brock both helped and intended to foil the terrorist."

The silence was deafening. Cho frowned in furious thought. Vega was stunned. Hassan and Muhammad exchanged grim glances, readily willing to contemplate treachery and conspiracy from their former lives in the Middle East. Ojara leaned back and grinned in appreciation.

Vega ventured hesitantly, "Doesn't assuming a conspiracy have the same, uh, Occam's razor problem you mentioned?"

Jane smiled encouragingly, "Very good question. It would except that it is parsimonious – efficient. My theory is consistent with all the evidence and makes not a single additional assumption than necessary. I will happily consider another explanation that accommodates the facts with fewer assumptions."

Cho cleared his throat. "Jane's ... theory ties it together if we're willing to consider a conspiracy. I'd sure as hell prefer one that doesn't involve a CIA agent facilitating a terrorist attack. Everyone keep–"

Wylie rushed in waving several printouts. "Cho, Brock called one number four times. Each call was received by a cell phone roughly matching the terrorist's location. That–" He stopped and looked around. "Um, did something happen?"

Cho nodded, "I'll tell you later. That's the confirmation we need for Abbott. Good work." He glanced around the room again. "Everyone keep thinking. Let me know if you come up with a better theory."

 **Van Pelt-Rigsby Home, Thursday, Evening**

The kids were finally in bed. Van Pelt angrily paced in front of her husband. "Wayne, we've gotta tell Cho. Min is at her wits' end. Unless she gets those papers signed it messes up everything for her."

He nodded. "Yeah. That guy is really a piece of work, isn't he? First he gets her pregnant, and then won't even answer her calls."

Though furious, she whispered to keep from waking the kids, "It's worse. He refused to accept a certified letter. What a, a jerk."

"I'll call."

 **Cho's Home, Thursday, Late Evening**

"Jane, it's Cho. I'm flying east tonight instead of tomorrow. ... Personal business. ... See you at Abbott's tomorrow at 11. 'Night."


	25. Chapter 25 - The Stakes

**Chapter 25: The Stakes**

 **Cho, En Route, Thursday-Friday**

Cho reached his gate and sought a quiet corner, which wasn't hard to find waiting for a Thursday night redeye. He fished out his cell phone and called, relieved to focus on work instead of the personal. It would be early morning there. His first two calls produced irritating warbles and, 'This number is no longer in service. Please check your number and dial again,' – no surprise for numbers he hadn't called in years. The third call went through. He got the man he needed two numbers later. He didn't get the answer he wanted. Disappointing. Unsurprising. Cho slipped his cell into his pocket. Abbott would have to handle this one.

Whether coach or first class, an over-nighter with a stop-over was exhausting and tedious. Restless sleep during the first leg was followed by uncomfortable dozing during the second leg to Boston. His subconscious stubbornly fixated on the mess back home.

 _Cho arrived in Oakland a scant hour after Rigs called. He was the senior male in his family and he'd vowed to pay attention, to set the younger generation on a better path than the bone-headed detour he'd taken. He'd come up short. A young, pregnant, single Korean cousin was undeniable proof. The only bright spot was his mother's help._

 _'Ma, you home?' he called in Korean as he toed his shoes off at the door._

 _She appeared in the kitchen doorway. 'Kimball, I didn't expect you. Come, have dinner.'_

 _He stalked into the kitchen, angry at the situation and himself. 'Min's pregnant.'_

 _His bald statement was met with only the clatter of ladling food. 'She is,' his mother finally acknowledged. 'Eat first. Difficult topics will wait.' Her reminder of basic etiquette was a nudge to calm down, an echo of countless turbulent family dinners in the past. Only his father's exacting, disapproving presence was missing._

 _Meal over, Cho helped clear the dishes, anger dissipated by the simple, relaxed meal. He courteously poured tea for his mother, then himself._

 _Now calm, 'Rigsby says Min is six months pregnant, they think by her math professor. The scumbag,' his mother frowned, 'won't take her calls." He paused to drink his tea._

 _'That's right.'_

 _'She won't keep the baby?'_

 _'No.' Bleakly, 'Her father would disown her for the shame of an unmarried daughter with a foreigner's honyol baby.'_

 _'She could make a life here. Her baby will be an American citizen and she could be too.'_

 _'She's 18. A student. Alone. And–'_

 _Uncharacteristically interrupting, '–The law will_ make _the father support his child! She–'_

 _'–No.' Quiet. Implacable. 'She wants nothing to do with him. She feels responsible to help her sisters get a better life. In Korea.' The 'away from their father' didn't need to be said._

 _'But–'_

 _Her mother silenced him with a look. Placing a gentle hand on his arm she said softly, 'I almost lost one child to the old ways. I won't risk another.'_

 _Cho blinked with startled realization: His mother meant him, regretted not fighting for him. His father had refused to consider Cho's dreams, insisting his son choose a respectable profession instead of a 'game.' Callow and angry, Cho reacted disastrously by joining the Avon Park Playboys. He shook his head slightly and refocused on the conversation._

 _'...can help her, guide her. But it must be her decision.'_

 _The tension bled off as Cho accepted her judgment. 'What can I do?'_

 _'Adoption agencies won't help her unless the father relinquishes his rights.'_

 _Cho put his elbows on the table and rubbed his hands over his face. He took a deep breath. 'I can help with that – if she wants. When will she be home?'_

A jolt and shuddering rumble signaled their landing at Logan International. Waking, he winced as sunlight poured into the plane, almost as tired as when he left Sacramento.

Cho found an empty restroom, shaved with the razor from his carry-on, washed his face, and changed out of tee and jeans into suit, tie and badge. (He was already armed, a habit now that terrorism was an ever-present risk in flying.) He was in a taxi to Cambridge and MIT 15 minutes later.

The taxi dropped him off at a corner near the university's administrative center. Imposing buildings gleamed amid immaculate landscaping. His lips quirked at the contrast. His advanced education had occurred in tired urban buildings that hosted evening classes for the college extension program. Fortunately learning didn't depend on fancy buildings. And his most important lessons were learned on the streets and in the Army. A glimpse from the corner of his eye stopped him dead. He turned, stared, and grinned in delight at the surreal vision: A building seemed frozen in mid-collapse. Anyone interested in architecture and photography recognized the Frank Gehry building upon sight, but he'd forgotten it was on the Massachusetts Institute of Technology campus. His grin faded and he continued to the administrative building for directions.

Cho's sharp knock was met with, "Come in." He automatically took stock of the man peering at a computer screen: 5'10", slight, sandy hair, hazel eyes, mid-20's, handsome. Cho stepped inside and glanced around. Bookcases overflowing with hardcover tomes dominated the small office. The titles were incomprehensible except for a few Cho recognized as the mathematical underpinnings of esoteric investment strategies. A photo of a pretty young blond woman was on the desk. In another photo, the same woman was holding hands with the man facing Cho, posed in front of a house nothing short of a mansion.

The man keyed something rapid-fire and said absently, "Office hours aren't till 1:00 but I have time–" He looked over and straightened in surprise. "Sorry, I thought you were a student." He rose and extended his hand. "David Singer. To what do I owe your visit?" Singer waved him to sit.

Expressionless, Cho briefly shook his hand. "Kimball Cho. I'm here on behalf of my cousin Min-Ji Kim."

Singer's eyebrows drew together. "Why?"

Cho laid the legal papers on the desk. "She's pregnant with your child. Needs you to relinquish your parental rights." His lips tightened and he added, "You refused her calls and letters."

Singer inhaled in surprise then stalled by gulping some coffee. His eyes flicked to the photo on his desk. Jaw clenched, "I don't know anything about that."

Cho closed his eyes for a moment. "Unless you want to parent the child–" Singer vigorously shook his head, both 'no' and denial he was involved, "–sign these forms so she can place it for adoption."

Angrily, "I'm hardly going to take the word of an infatuated teenager." He half rose and gestured toward the door for the intimidating Asian man to leave.

Temper tightly leashed, Cho abruptly stood and leaned forward, hands flat on the desk. "A young foreign student with a chip on her shoulder about men was enamored with her brilliant math professor. You exploited that for sex. You _know_ you were the only one." Unnoticed, his suit jacket fell open revealing his holstered weapon.

Singer gripped the edge of the desk, eyes wide with fear. "I – I'd need proof. You should leave–" The door was flung open by a uniformed security guard.

Coldly, "–Is there a problem, professor?" Eyes trained on Cho his hand hovered above the gun at his side.

Cho grimaced: _Silent alarm._ He straightened and turned toward the guard, hands visible and open. "Kimball Cho, FBI." He carefully brushed his jacket aside to reveal the badge attached to his belt. "I have a few questions for Dr. Singer." He hadn't wanted to mention the FBI but it was the easiest way to explain his weapon and deflect the guard.

"Oh. Uh, ID, please." Cho slowly pulled his FBI ID from an inner pocket. The guard drew the intended if incorrect conclusion – Federal business. "I'll be in the hall outside, Agent Cho. Sorry for the interruption." He nodded to Singer and closed the door behind him.

Cho faced Singer, who had sunk back into his chair. "Do this the easy way and sign the paper." He pointedly looked at the photo of the woman. "Your girlfriend–" he cocked his head, "– _fianceé?_ – doesn't need to know." Singer's eyes flicked to the photo then blinked. _Guessed right._ Cho leaned forward again. "Jerk me around and you'll get proof at your trial for statutory rape."

The man blanched. "What?! She turned 18 in February. Consenting adult!"

"Her birthday is July 2nd, written 'two' 'seven' by many." Cho didn't hide his disgust. "You checked her birth date. Premeditated." Sharply, " _Decide_."

Singer jerked as though slapped. Cho slid the form closer and tossed a pen down from the desk caddy. Singer swallowed audibly, fumbled for the pen and signed with a shaking hand. Cho checked that the blanks were all filled in, folded the form and put it in his breast pocket.

Voice a low growl, "I'll call if anything more is needed." Cho didn't bother closing the door.

 **Sacramento, Friday**

Lisbon stood when her name was called, glad there wasn't a long wait. The brevity of an embryo transfer belied its emotional impact. After the crushing disappointment of the first attempt, the most she could muster was grim determination. She knew Jane was upset at having to travel instead of accompanying her but she felt it was just as well. Her own hopes were hard enough to bear. No matter how understanding, how supportive her husband was, dreading his disappointment would make it harder. Admonishing herself to appreciate what she had was powerless against longing for a family with the man she loved. The short time by calendar since they became a couple was irrelevant. She'd suppressed wanting Jane to _be_ with her for years, for a decade. The longing for all that implied couldn't be denied.

 **Reagan National Airport, DC**

After landing at Dulles International Patrick Jane took a taxi to intercept Cho at the Reagan National airport. He worried about Teresa. She downplayed the transfer as quick and easy but the physical was the least of it. He called, knowing her early morning appointment would be over.

"Hello, my dear. How are you doing?"

"Your flight was okay?"

He rolled his eyes at the obvious deflection. "Yes, now how did the procedure go?"

"Fine, quick. I made it to work on time."

He shook his head. "You _could_ have taken a day."

Dryly, "That just lets work pile up. Better to keep busy."

He silently sighed at the stress in her voice. "Did Robinson say anything, um–"

"The same instructions. I – we – won't really know for ten days."

Warmly, "Then I have some ideas for enjoying the wait," _and distracting you from worrying. "_ It's a holiday weekend after all."

Her phone picked up voices in the background. Hurriedly, "I'm late for a meeting. Call or text when you know when your return flight gets in." She involuntarily shivered, remembering the night of the attack.

Soothingly, "Hey, it's just an ordinary flight. See you tonight."

She sighed knowing he'd picked up her fear. "It better be ordinary. Love you."

"Love you more."

Jane walked down the concourse serving Cho's flight and stopped just before the security station, a spot every arriving passenger would pass. He'd easily cajoled Cho's flight information from the airline, convenient if worrisome. He scoffed at still-porous airline security and largely symbolic TSA screening. The Sacramento airport attack was searing proof of continuing danger. Jane bought tea which the disposable cup rendered unpalatable and settled down to wait and think. _We need to talk before meeting Abbott. ... Since when does Cho deal with personal matters in the middle of a case?_ Though nosy by nature and training, it was more than that. His makeshift family was everything to him since he'd killed Red John and returned from exile. He _needed_ to know what was going on, _needed_ to be sure the people who mattered were okay.

Kimball Cho plowed through the crowds as thousands who worked for the Federal government left early for the long holiday weekend. He'd refused to risk missing Singer by pausing for breakfast; it was now mid-morning and he had yet to eat. Hair prickled on his arm as someone crowded his personal space. _Oh._ Jane matched his pace alongside.

Jane nodded a greeting, assessing his friend with a glance. He speculated from Cho's phone call the previous evening. "Personal business, involving a friend – no, relative." Genially, "Anger, so trouble not pleasure. Problem resolved but you're still angry."

Cho grunted and countered, "With you."

Jane raised his eyebrows and took a second look. "No. You're _annoyed_ with me, but angry about the matter involving your relative. Hm. Boston. Cambridge. Harvard, or – MIT?" An image surfaced of the quiet, standoffish Asian girl who helped with Ben Rigsby's birthday party. Smugly, "Ah. Something involving Min's former professor," he guessed, recalling overheard bits of Lisbon's conversations with Van Pelt.

"Shut up, Jane."

Easily, "Food, then. There's a decent restaurant where we can talk."

Irked, Cho's lips twitched. "Not about my business."

Abruptly serious, "About the case."

Soon they were seated at a secluded table. The lull between breakfast and lunch left the restaurant nearly empty, affording them privacy.

Cho started his meal and was about to talk till he caught sight of the muted tv above the counter. He motioned toward it with his head and Jane twisted around to look. The newscast showed angry demonstrators marching in front of the speaker, California's current attorney general, Gordon. Closed captioning silently provided the newscaster's narrative. 'The FBI announced the terrorist illegally crossed the southern border, triggering new demonstrations by the victims' relatives and friends. Demonstrators demand tighter border security. In other news, five US military were killed in Iraq yesterday by a surprise ISIS attack. Senate debate over US policy for the region continues. Sources say–'

Cho turned back to Jane. "Talk."

Jane took a few bites while waiting for the server to move out of earshot. "This is no ordinary case. We need to agree on how to play it."

"Meaning?"

Jane paused to savor tea served in a real teacup. Quietly, "A terrorist attack involving a rogue CIA agent is bad enough. It involved too many specialized skills. He had help, more than just another unsub."

Cho nodded. Grimly, " _Agency_ help."

"This goes way beyond CT. It could get ugly fast."

"Already ugly. Ninety-three people died."

Jane resigned himself to the reality of working with cops, of being friends with cops. Cho's instinct – and everyone else in his circle – would always be to nail the perp, danger be damned. He tilted his head, "Abbott's one thing. What do we know about the brass? Isn't the FBI Director new?"

"The President appointed Stenholm from Chicago rather than reappoint the former director. Ramirez followed him to take the Deputy Director position. The D.C. crowd was pissed outsiders were chosen."

"What are their reputations?"

"Field agents swear by them. Mancini too." He drew a deep breath, "No matter where this leads, I need to help stop it." He met Jane's stare. "You?"

Mildly, "I'd prefer an extended vacation with Lisbon. Australia, perhaps." He sighed. "Lacking that option I need to read whoever's involved before I buy in." He looked hard at Cho. "I'm going to step on some toes."

"I'm counting on it."

 **FBI Headquarters, DC**

Cho and Jane arrived at the FBI headquarters late Friday morning. The administrative assistant looked up. "Agent Abbott will be available in a few minutes. May I get you coffee, a soft drink?"

Cho parked his carry-on against a wall, turned and asked, "Men's room?"

"Down the hall to the left."

Jane carefully positioned his suitcase next to Cho's and took a seat. Hopeful, "Miss–"

"–Warren. Gail."

"–Tea?"

She confirmed with a smile, "Or tea."

"Yes, please, Gail."

Cho returned a few minutes later to find Jane chatting with the admin. A chime sounded. Warren broke off, "Agent Abbott can see you now." Both rose and Jane discarded his empty cup in a wastebasket. She ushered them into the office, silently closing the door after them. They seated themselves in front of the desk.

Abbott quickly glanced over them. "Good flight?"

"Good enough," Cho nodded, answering for both.

All business, "What do you have?"

Cho had sent the report of the team's factual findings to both Sacramento SAC Mancini and Abbott. Cho gave a quick summary, "...which is what we can prove. The legal case against the suspects is moot since both are dead."

Abbott rumbled thoughtfully, "And what do you suspect but _can't_ prove?"

Cho handed him a flash drive. "I kept speculation out of the official report as you directed. Proof will require a broader investigation."

Abbott inserted the drive into a port and silently read their disturbing conclusions. "All right then." Soberly, "We're meeting with the Deputy Director, Inspector General and military intelligence on what to do about this ... situation." Abbott started to rise, then sat back down when the others didn't move. "More?"

 _Time to put up or shut up._ "This goes beyond one dirty agent. Do _you_ believe there's a conspiracy at the agency level?"

"Yes."

"You're taking it on? With the people we're meeting?"

"Yes."

"The investigation will center on D.C. Why are we involved?"

Abbott looked first to Cho, then Jane. "Your talents are needed. And your independence. That's the purpose of this meeting, develop a plan to determine who is involved and stop them."

Deceptively relaxed, Jane spoke for the first time, "You're confident everyone's on the up and up?" Abbott nodded. Jane smiled slightly. _At least Abbott trusts them._

Brusquely, "Let's go."

The three rode the elevator to the top floor then made their way to a conference room. Abbott motioned for them to enter while he waited as a Hispanic man approached. Two men were already seated at the table. Jane stopped short at sight of a lean, nondescript, middle-aged man with a tan like sun-baked leather. Jane read the military insignia and said, "Cho, meet Colonel – oh, sorry, didn't get introductions when I was abducted." Jane took a seat, eyes glued to the man.

Unruffled, "Munroe. Army intelligence."

Seated next to Munroe was a tightly-wound, mid-50's man with thinning red hair. He looked from the colonel to the newcomers and introduced himself, "Inspector General Giardino. Agent Cho and Mr. Jane, I assume?"

Cho nodded. Jane lifted his hand in acknowledgment. Attention turned to the men entering. Abbott sat beside Cho. The other – mid-40's, medium height, slender, with a shock of jet black hair – sat at the head of the table. An assistant slipped in to provide attendees with beverages of their choice. He placed glasses and pitchers of ice water on the conference table and left, closing the door behind him. Jane was amused that actual china was used at this top level (in every sense) instead of disposable cups.

Abbott handled the introductions. "Deputy Director Ramirez, this is Agent Kimball Cho and consultant Patrick Jane." Ramirez leaned forward to shake their hands. "I gather you've already met Colonel Munroe and IG Giardino."

Ramirez settled into his chair and scanned the group. After a moment, "Agent Cho's team gathered evidence showing CIA Agent Peter Brock facilitated the terrorist attack on Sacramento International Airport. Brock likely had help – help from within our government." Eyes on Cho, "Your findings are the first concrete proof that factions within US national security agencies are pursuing their own aims. Nearly a hundred people were killed in that attack. We also suspect US initiatives in the Middle East are being compromised." He looked to the colonel. "Bob, you start."

Munroe leaned forward. "Military operations in Iraq have been disrupted since the new administration took office. Orders get garbled. Critical intelligence is later found to be incorrect or unaccountably delayed." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Army teams have been ambushed. Five casualties just yesterday. The Administration wants a gradual draw-down followed by locals taking more responsibility. That strategy is deliberately being undermined. Crises are being created to justify keeping a substantial US military force in place."

Ramirez nodded and looked to Giardino. "Tony?"

Giardino ran a hand through his hair, lips pursed. "My attorneys have been investigating reports of questionable activity by various personnel in the CIA, NSA, and FBI. Distinguishing intentional misuse of government authority from mistakes and random glitches is slow. Uncovering evidence is problematic in agencies whose work is classified and secret. It shouldn't be, but cooperation is uncertain and evidence might be destroyed. It will all come out, but will take months or years."

"Which is too damn long when soldiers are getting killed," growled Munroe.

"Bob," Ramirez warned. The colonel sat back and drank his coffee to quell his impatience.

"May I?" Cho asked. Ramirez nodded. "We did the initial work on the terrorist attack, but further investigation will likely center on DC. How does a team based on the West coast fit in?"

Ramirez rubbed his chin. "The Administration got a cool reception from high levels in government agencies when it took office 18 months ago. The President appointed Director Stenholm in part because he is _not_ part of the DC elite running government agencies – not only the FBI, but the military and national security agencies too. The Director recruited me, also from outside of DC. The past several months Tony and Bob independently raised concerns that reinforced my own observations. Your findings on Brock convince me we have a serious problem to clean up."

Cho frowned. "Colonel Munroe is military – what's the connection to the FBI?"

"If our suspicions are correct, this is systematic, coordinated." He grimaced then spit it out, "A conspiracy to subvert national foreign policy. Illegal, criminal acts within the Federal government on US soil are the responsibility of the FBI and DOJ." He continued. "Dennis is involved on strength of his work in eradicating the Blake Association, but also because he's new to DC. I need people I _know_ haven't been co-opted. You played a role in the Blake clean-up. Your team is geographically distant and its diversity makes it unlikely to be connected to the East coast elite." His gaze turned to Jane. "And I understand Mr. Jane has skills that can provide a shortcut – a _legal_ shortcut – to identifying the people we seek."

Giardino interjected, "We can't base legal cases on your conclusions, Mr. Jane. But it'll be incredibly helpful if we can focus our efforts on people who are most likely involved."

Ramirez continued, "We need to act fast to keep our troops safe," he glanced at Munroe. "Even more important, this needs to stop before the US gets drawn into a hot war in the region. Russia, Turkey, and Iran make an incoherent foreign policy exceedingly dangerous." The group silently absorbed the task facing them.

Jane set his teacup down with a slight clatter, drawing attention to himself. "The FBI announced the terrorist was a foreign national who illegally crossed our southern border." Gaze fast on Ramirez, "What will be publicly announced about Peter Brock?"

Puzzlement flitted across Ramirez's face at the non-sequitur question. "Nothing at this time. Why?"

Calmly, "So the FBI is covering up government involvement in a terrorist attack?" Abbott blinked and sucked in a breath. Munroe scowled. Giardino flushed in anger. Cho watched carefully, expression neutral.

Ramirez frowned. "We've barely started investigating which agencies may have helped Brock. A public announcement would warn those involved. Why isn't that obvious?"

Jane took another sip of tea. "What isn't obvious is where virtue lies. A CIA agent's involvement in a terrorist attack is being withheld from the public – astonishing decision for an agency sworn to serve and protect. People who helped Brock would be charged with being accessories to murder, meaning they'll be dangerous and desperate to avoid detection. Why should I believe this is more than politics, that the perps will be prosecuted - that your side is any different?" He keenly watched the reactions.

Munroe and Giardino erupted in anger.

"As FBI, you're _supposed_ to help clean this up!" Munroe said angrily.

Giardino sputtered, "We're upholding the law! How can–"

"–Tony, Bob, let me," Ramirez interrupted coolly. "Mr. Jane, I appreciate you're not an FBI agent. Illegal, deadly actions by Federal employees _should_ outrage citizens. Keeping this out of the public _at this time_ is essential to stopping it. The reason we need your skills is precisely because we _will_ follow the law–"

Jane glanced at Munroe and smiled slightly, "Like when I was abducted?"

Ramirez threw a disapproving glance at Munroe, " _Not_ like that."

Munroe muttered, "My guys are getting killed. Needed to know if you can deliver." Another glance from Ramirez shut him up.

He resumed, "We _will_ follow the law. We _will_ do our damnedest to uncover and prosecute criminal acts and abuses of authority. Mr. Jane, you and everyone in the US has a stake in civilian control over government. We," he glanced around to include everyone, "will support the policies of duly elected government officials, whatever those policies are. _That_ is how we differ from the faction that owns Brock." Coldly, "–Any further questions?"

Jane took another sip. "No. Thank you."

Ramirez breathed deeply then exhaled. "Then let's get on with it."

Jane said little as the others spent the next two hours developing a plan. Sandwiches were brought in so the meeting could continue uninterrupted. Goals were set, roles assigned, forces marshaled. Giardino's legions of lawyers would continue investigating people already referred to the IG's office, plus others discovered who might be involved. Munroe would try to pin down who in the military was involved in mis-communications and bad intelligence, particularly when it endangered troops. Using Cho's team and other trusted agents as needed, Abbott would pursue anyone and everyone who had contact with Brock. Jane would be heavily utilized to read 'persons of interest' in formal and informal interviews.

Jane bridled at the prospect of months spent flying to DC to read dozens or hundreds of 'persons of interest.' He waited for a break in the conversation. "Gentlemen, in the interests of speed, why not concentrate on suspicious connections we've already identified?"

Giardino objected, "Brock's dead. All we can do is check out his contacts."

Jane idly twirled a pen. "I think there's a connection to Wentworth that's worth checking out."

Everyone but Cho shifted uncomfortably. Ramirez voiced their reaction. "Senator Wentworth is the last person I'd suspect of being involved."

"Sorry. Not the senator, his granddaughter Courtney Wentworth."

Ramirez looked puzzled. "Why do you think she's involved?"

"Her presence at inconvenient meetings when transcripts would save her the trouble. Inexplicable guilt and curiosity about the attack. But most of all her close relationship with her grandfather. He was an influential opponent of the Administration's draw-down policy – until the attack. There has to be a reason the terrorist chose Sacramento instead of closer, better known cities. Too many coincidences. At least investigate her, monitor her contacts."

Ramirez shook his head. "That's not nearly enough for a warrant."

Jane frowned. "Why? You're going to investigate Brock's contacts."

Giardino fielded that one. "The evidence gathered on Brock will justify warrants. National security employees are subject to management oversight as a condition of employment and security clearance. Ms. Wentworth's civil rights are protected by law."

Jane grinned ironically, "Didn't the CIA spy on Congress a few years back?" He backed off at Ramirez's frown, the counterargument obvious. "Okay. But we _can_ investigate foreigners overseas, right?" Several nodded. "Someone paid to bring our terrorist from the Middle East to the US. His tattoo suggests he's connected to a small town in Iran. Colonel, can you get information about someone in Iran?" Cho suppressed a grin.

Munroe cleared his throat. "Satellite surveillance. Just tell me the town."

Jane shook his head impatiently. "In person. Someone who can inconspicuously pick up gossip, see who – most likely a family – suddenly seems rich. We have a town and a note when something was delivered. There's a chance our suicide bomber was paid."

Abbott weighed in. "Large money transfers might show up in our Swift financial exchange system for banks, maybe all the way back to the US. We'd need to know the bank and a name or account number."

Jane pushed his point. "All the more reason to identify the terrorist. One good lead will do more, faster, than months of blind interviews."

"The idea is worth pursuing. And if Wentworth's name is connected – or any American's – that could justify a warrant. –Bob?"

"I'll need the town and everything known about the terrorist." Abbott nodded. "I'll see if we can get someone in there. I may have to work with the CIA."

"Only if you're sure there's no involvement." Munroe nodded.

The meeting closed with an agreement to update weekly via encrypted conference call. Abbott, Cho and Jane returned to Abbott's floor. Cho followed Abbott into his office; Jane tarried in the anteroom.

Gail Warren was clearing her desk for a head start on her holiday weekend. Jane looked closely at the two carry-ons positioned against the wall. He glanced at the wastebasket, noting that his discarded cup was still there. He turned toward the woman.

"Gail, did you need to move our suitcases?"

She looked over in consternation. "No. Is something wrong?"

Soothingly, "Not at all, just wondering. –Say, can you give me a sheet of paper and an envelope?"

"Sure. Is letterhead okay?" She handed him the paper and envelope when he nodded.

"Thank you." Jane jotted a note on the page, folded it, and sealed it in the envelope. He wrote a name on the envelope and slipped it into his breast pocket. "I don't suppose the Senate is still in session?"

"Yes it is. Amazing since they usually clear out early for holidays. It's something about an emergency appropriation for disaster relief."

"I've never seen the inside of the Capital building. Do you think I could get in? Don't the senators have offices there, too?"

She nodded. "Security is strict, but FBI personnel have no problems. I hand-deliver material to senators all the time."

Warmly, "Have a good holiday."

She hesitated. "You and Agent Cho are flying back to California?" Jane nodded. "You should check the flight schedules. A lot of flights are canceled because of heavy rain and tornado warnings for the whole Midwest."

"Thanks for the heads up."

She peeked into the office when Cho exited. "I'm leaving, boss. Anything you need before I go?"

"I'm fine, Gail. Enjoy your weekend."

 **DC, Friday**

Cho and Jane exited the FBI headquarters and waited to catch a taxi.

"What now?"

"We have time to kill. I'd like to see Congress in action."

Cho eyed him suspiciously. "Really?"

Nodding, "Really. –Gail," Cho blinked then connected the name, "said the entire Midwest has bad weather. We may not be able to fly back tonight."

"There are probably flights, even if they have to detour around bad weather."

Jane huffed, "And make a six hour flight even longer? Let's check out Congress and have dinner. Maybe the airlines will be back on schedule by then."

Fifteen minutes later Jane and Cho leaned against the railing of the visitor's gallery above the senate floor. Jane noticed Wentworth seated with his granddaughter by his side, whispering urgently. He grinned widely as his gaze swept over the politicians.

Cho glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Quietly, "What?"

Jane's grin broadened and he whispered back, "This is like a candy shop for reading people. Towering ambition, secrets, inflated egos, deception."

Cho nudged his arm. "Hey. You're here to save the government, not destroy it."

"Cho, my cons were child's play compared to government. I had to persuade marks to hand over money. Government does it through laws – which is to say _force_. Politicians promise the world, tax us, take a cut for administration, and then tell us how grateful we should be to get part of our money back."

"Cynical, maybe?"

"Realistic."

Reasonably, "Politicians don't get the money. People have to be paid to run programs."

"Yeah. Except somehow politicians arrive poor and leave wealthy." Jane noticed Wentworth's granddaughter leave the floor. "I need to make a stop. I'll be back in a few." Cho nodded and Jane hurried away.

Fifteen minutes later Jane returned. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah.

Despite it being Friday evening, crowds were thin with the town emptied out for the holiday. Taxis were plentiful and restaurants uncrowded. A half hour later they were seated in a private restaurant booth and had placed their orders for dinner.

Cho leaned back tiredly. "Think that Iranian town will give us anything?"

Jane sipped his beverage. "Wentworth is the stronger bet, but the town may pan out."

"You satisfied everyone's legit? More than just political battles?"

" _They_ believe they are. But then Brock was universally described as patriotic."

Cho straightened, suddenly worried. "Jane?"

He waved his hand. "Relax. I think we're backing the right horse. They genuinely want to uncover and eliminate people who want to run things, elections be damned. I'll be interested to see if the perps get the punishment they deserve, not just lose their jobs."

"Are you really surprised there's no public announcement about Brock?"

"No. I wanted to see their reactions."

Their food was served and conversation waned as both focused on eating. The server cleared the table and took their orders for dessert.

Jane idly rotated his wedding ring – his ring from Lisbon. Cho frowned at the tell. "What?" he asked, glancing at Jane's hand.

Jane immediately stopped. "Tell me why you were in Boston?"

"No."

Jane shrugged and grinned. "Worth a shot before you get mad."

Cho's visage darkened. "So I'm not gonna like it. What?"

Easily, "Someone searched our luggage while we were in that meeting, likely to find out about the case. I thought I'd stir things up. I, uh, left a sealed envelope in Senator Wentworth's office, addressed to him. Unless I miss my guess, Courtney Wentworth will open it based on the FBI letterhead."

"And?"

"The note said, 'I know what you did.' It won't mean anything if she's not involved. But if she is, maybe it'll flush out some people who helped Brock."

Quietly, "Dammit, Jane. Don't you think they might come after you?"

"That's why I'm telling you. You and Abbott have already started monitoring anyone who's even been in the same zip code as Peter Brock, right?"

Cho reluctantly nodded. He'd called California while in Abbott's office. Abbott had also assigned DC-based agents to help.

"Let's get them to show themselves." Jane made a face. "I don't fancy spending months in DC interrogating mostly innocent people."

Cho exhaled sharply in irritation. Sternly, "You don't leave my sight while we're here."

Jane smiled. "See? Already back to BFF. "

Cho swore under his breath but let it drop. There was no way it could be undone.

Flight cancellations had only increased as the night wore on. Cho and Jane rented adjacent hotel rooms and left the connecting doors unlocked. Showers and a few hours' sleep to combat jet lag left both feeling rested and alert.

Jane knocked and entered at Cho's "yeah." "We're stuck here till morning. I'm tired of reading and tv is awful. How about that comedy club we went to a while back?"

After a moment Cho agreed. "I can go for that." _Stay here and Jane'll ping off the walls all evening._

 **Comedy Club, DC**

Cho and Jane made their way through the packed club to a table seating two. Somehow non-smoking ordinances always failed in clubs. A heavy haze of tobacco and marijuana smoke hung over the room. The hum of innumerable conversations provided a solid backdrop of white noise. Jane ordered a drink. Cho unbent and had a beer. The lights dimmed and the noise died down. A spotlight highlighted a seated figure on the low stage.

After ten minutes Jane leaned over and said, "Pity his clothes are sharper than his wit."

Cho shrugged. Even bad stand-up comedy was more interesting than tv. The next two were moderately better, but were in no danger of being recruited by SNL or any venue more prominent than this. Mid-way through the third act Jane rose and headed to the bar. He returned with a grin. "I can do better. The manager's letting me do the fourth set."

Cho frowned and straightened. "That's too exposed."

"Meh. No one even knows we're here. Live a little." Jane disappeared toward the bar again.

Hair prickling with apprehension Cho left the table and stood facing the crowd near the stage. Only half his mind on Jane's performance, Cho was still impressed. Jane was better than the best bits of the three previous performers combined. Jane never seemed to pay attention or care about politics. But maybe that was why his barbs were deadly accurate and funny, largely leaning toward skewering pompous politicians and grandees of all stripes. Jane proved to be an equal-opportunity offender of political parties. Twenty-five minutes into the thirty minute set Cho began to relax. A slight commotion toward the door grabbed his attention.

A shot rang out.

Screams and shoving made it a madhouse.

A deafening fire alarm sounded though there was no fire.

More shots. The lights cut out.

Cho shoved his way onto the stage and used his cell phone for a light. No Jane.

It took five interminable minutes before the lights flickered to life. Cho grimly surveyed the scene. Terrified people huddled against the walls or crouched at floor level. Many sported bruises, torn clothes, cuts. A few had been trampled with bones broken. Tables and chairs were overturned and the floor was awash in spilled drinks and sparkling shattered glass. Sirens wailed and got louder as police approached.

No sign who fired. No sight of Jane. Cho checked the stage and exhaled in relief. _No blood._ The main entrance was impossibly clogged with people desperate to get out while others wanted to barricade the door. Cho scouted the stage area and found the emergency side door. The door to the alley was ajar; the alley, empty.


	26. Chapter 26 - Hide and Seek

**Chapter 26: Hide and Seek**

 **Comedy Club, DC, Friday Evening**

 _Damn!_ Cho stepped back into the club fearing Jane had been abducted, wondering how the hell to find him. _No backup, no leads_. A quick glance confirmed the shooter was gone, the danger in the club over. The crowd milled about, some shocked into silence, others crying or swearing, but there were no life-threatening injuries. The manager shouted for people to stay inside and motioned a burly bouncer to help drag a heavy table to barricade the door. Astonishingly, only six minutes had elapsed since the first shot. _No wonder cops aren't here yet._

Cho pulled out his phone and dialed. _Worth a try._ "Jane, where are you? ... Be there in a second." Cho exited the side door again. The alley was still empty. The wail of sirens drew closer. A door eased open and Jane cautiously slipped out.

Clipped, "What happened?"

Jane rolled his shoulders to relieve tension. "I picked up on the threat from the crowd. Dropped and rolled, got out here and picked a lock to– Gun!" Jane yelled, glimpsing a silhouette backlit by street lights. He ducked behind a dumpster as bullets struck sparks like tracer fire.

Cho wheeled, returned fire, ducked into a doorway. Suddenly – silence. He sprinted to the street and halted in frustration. The gunman had vanished. Three police cruisers screeched to a stop and cops tumbled out, guns drawn.

"Drop the gun! Down on the ground!"

Cho grimaced and complied, cooperating as they handcuffed him. Time crawled while the officers checked his FBI credentials and bystanders confirmed he'd fired in self-defense. They returned his weapon and asked him to stick around and come to the station when they were done.

Holstering his piece, Cho demanded, "I need a description," throwing, "I'll be back," over his shoulder as he returned to the alley. "Jane!" No response. He jogged to the opposite street. _Nothing, could be anywhere._ He checked doors on the way back but all were locked. A low buzz startled him and he whirled and crouched. Homing in on the sound he stood and felt around the dumpster lid. The smooth, flat object vibrated in his hand as he swiped the screen. "Yeah?"

 **Lisbon, Sacramento**

Lisbon clicked off the tv and headed to the kitchen. _Huh – 8 already. He ever gonna call? Maybe his flight's delayed._ She dialed, holding her cell with one hand while rummaging in the refrigerator for dessert.

"Jane, you were– Cho?! Where's Jane, why do you have his phone? ... What do you mean you _lost him_? ... But he's okay? ..." She exhaled, equally relieved and irritated. "I could get a flight– ... Okay, that doesn't make sense. ... Call soon as you know anything. ... It better be."

Lisbon terminated the call and leaned against the counter, anxious but stymied. _Count on Jane to poke a hornets' nest when I'm six hours away._ _At least Cho will–_ She jumped when her cell sounded.

"Jane?!" Her face fell. "... It's fine, Rigs. What do you need? ... Yes, overtime's okay since the Governor asked. Why all of a sudden? ... Coordinate with the locals but our guys work speaker safety, not crowd control. ... Call if the demonstrations get out of hand. Good work."

It was pure luck Rigsby's unit was covering the holiday weekend instead of a green CIB team. A few quick steps returned her to the living room where she clicked on the local news. Reporters spoke soberly as TV cameras panned restive crowds outside the political rally. It would be a long night; she hoped for a peaceful one.

 **Cho, DC**

Cho ended the call with Lisbon and paused. His gaze flicked from Jane's phone to the top of the dumpster then he grimaced and thumped the side with his hand. _Should've caught that._ He pocketed Jane's cell.

The cops were done processing the scene and witnesses when Cho returned. Vague, inconsistent descriptions from club goers and bystanders would be useless for getting an ID. EMT's loaded those who needed to be checked or patched up into ambulances. Inside, a CSI team had recovered the bullets and shell casings. Jane was on the run but hopefully safe and there was nothing Cho could do about that now. He rode in a squad car to the police station, gave his official statement and waited while his weapon was test-fired. That would clarify which bullets came from him and which from the attacker. Cho exchanged cards with the lead detective who promised to put a rush on the ballistics search for a match. A half hour later Cho was in a taxi back to the hotel thinking he needed to update Abbott. His cell chimed. _Speaking of..._ "Cho."

 **Jane, DC**

"–Gun!" Jane cowered as bullets pinged off the metal dumpster, the sound deafening in the urban canyon. He dared to look when it fell silent. His cell phone vibrated and he swiped the screen and read, ' _What do you want to keep quiet?_ ' Jane paused then decided, reassured when he heard Cho talking with the cops. After memorizing the sending number he tossed his cell atop the dumpster and loped away in the opposite direction.

Jane slowed to a brisk walk, hugging shadows and alert for danger or a tail. After a few blocks he crossed the street to a large drugstore. Stooping a little to hide between the aisles he gathered the things he needed. His eyes brightened at the sight of burner phones at the checkout display case.

"These things and two of those cell phones, please," he said, putting the products on the counter.

The bored teen set his cell aside and rang up the purchases. "That all?"

Jane nodded as he paid with cash. "I'd like to send a text from your phone."

The teen made a face and said by rote, "Like the sign says, the burners come charged so you can–"

"There's $20 bucks in it to use yours."

His eyes opened wide. "Uh, nothin' illegal, right? And I key it in."

"Fine." Jane jotted a phone number and message on a scratch pad on the counter. He tossed down a twenty. "You enter that while I get a soda." Back by the coolers he was hidden from the windows. The teen finished and Jane returned. He checked that the message was sent and bought the soda. "Is there a washroom?"

The clerk pointed to a far corner. "Thanks for the twenty, man."

A few minutes later Jane left the store wearing an untucked white tee printed with "Washington Monument" and a brimmed, floppy hat embroidered with "OBX." A plastic bag held jacket, vest, and shirt along with the purchases. He strolled away with the hat pulled low. Soon a long flight of steps ended in an underground Metro station which luckily had an ATM. Jane pulled the hat lower, shielding his face from the security camera, and withdrew two thousand in cash. Years ago he'd put money into the account with an untraceable fake name and a high daily limit, just in case. Satisfied no one noticed anything unusual he found a quiet corner and called using one of the burners.

"Hey, Lisbon. Sorry I didn't call sooner but I lost track of the time. ... Right as rain. Listen, change of plans. I'm going to be stuck here for several days. ..." He frowned and held the phone away from his ear. _Busted._ Resigned, "You talked to Cho I take it. ... I'm _not_ lying. I didn't plan it to go this way but we can-" He sighed. "Teresa! Cho and I will handle it. Trust me. ..." His forehead creased in distress. "Then trust Cho. I _will_ be careful and I'll call tomorrow. ... Love you too."

Jane set it aside, the need to be alert more pressing than Lisbon's irritation. Luckily, the busy station made it easy to blend into the crowd. After checking the Metro schematic he bought a ticket with cash. While waiting, he stepped into a train, dropped the cell he'd used to call Lisbon, then stepped off again. He took another train going in the opposite direction at the last moment, certain no one followed. It was a short walk from the Metro stop to the place he intended to spend the night. _Tough dodging bullets asleep._ He paused outside a wrought iron fence surrounding a stately building and donned dress shirt, vest and suit jacket over the tee before approaching the gate. He'd send a text once they agreed to let him stay.

 **Abbott Residence, Alexandria**

Dennis Abbott relaxed in the living room, beer in hand as he avidly followed the pre-season exhibition game. He and Lena had bought a house rather than renting when they relocated to DC, opting for convenience and a short commute since their kids were grown and out. Lena was slowly completing her decorating with art and furniture from around the world as a perk of the heavy travel schedule for her Commerce position.

"Deni –"

Abbott muted the TV. "What, baby?" he glanced back toward her.

"I, um, this text is–" Lena sat down next to her husband and showed him her phone.

He took it, concerned by the worry in her voice. "This is your private phone?"

She nodded, biting her lower lip. "Only friends and family have this number. That's why I opened the anonymous text." Nearly whispering, "This was supposed to be over."

He read: _'RO BRVO. Tell Kimball to meet me where I saw the old silver fox last year. Tomorrow morning. Sorry for the alarm.'_

Abbott took a deep breath and chose to remain calm. "It's okay. There's only one person I can think of who'd know about this and have your number."

Frightened, "You're sure?"

"I will be once I make a call."

 **Cho, DC, Saturday Morning**

It was mid-morning when Cho walked down a tree-shaded street lined with large, graceful buildings facing a small park. An Uber trip and three random metro train rides ensured he wasn't followed to his meeting with Jane. He had no doubt Jane sent the message to Lena Abbott. Having used surnames professionally, Lisbon's SCU team long ago decided given names would signal legitimate messages in dicey situations. Without explaining, Abbott agreed Jane was the sender. Responding to the attack was impossible till they knew Jane's situation and ideas.

At first the 'where I saw the old silver fox last year' made no sense to Cho. He, Lisbon and Jane had spent the past year hunting Blake leaders. Then Cho remembered Jane's DC meeting with Bret Stiles and wracked his memory to be sure he knew the right embassy. Contacting Lisbon or Van Pelt was out now that Friday's attack proved electronic communications were compromised. Having adversaries with access to every law enforcement tool was a serious and dangerous wrinkle in the case. _Who watches the watchers?_

The people he passed were mostly domestic workers who served the affluent residents, foreign nationals heading to holiday outings, and tourists. He noticed and dismissed a man leaning against a tree in the park with his face buried in a map. The 'OBX' on the hat was a giveaway – the Outer Banks was a favorite vacation spot for locals.

"Cho." Cho slowed, stiffening slightly but masking his surprise as the man from the park caught up with him. Urgently, "Is your phone on you?"

"New burner."

"Good." Now walking alongside, Jane's shoulders relaxed in relief. "This way."

Ten minutes later they were seated in a restaurant. Jane placed his order for eggs and tea; Cho, coffee. Leaning close, their quiet conversation was audible only to them.

Cho pinned Jane with a look, "Why run?"

"You already know. That's why you bought a burner."

Cho grimaced. "We weren't _followed_ to the club, they tracked my cell, ID'd yours when I called and ambushed us. That's why you left it in the alley."

Jane grumbled, "I may as well be wearing an ankle bracelet."

"That's on me." He'd inadvertently undermined Jane's precaution of switching burner phones weekly, something that no longer seemed ridiculous. "Now you. Why'd you make yourself bait?"

"I didn't," Jane replied morosely, "not intentionally." He took another bite and sipped some tea, chagrined at a plan gone awry. "Our luggage was searched at the FBI. I wanted to flush out Brock's accomplices–"

"–Without telling me first," Cho interjected dourly.

"We were supposed to be flying back to California," Jane objected mildly. "I left my letter in Wentworth's Senate hideaway, thought I got away clean. I guess Wentworth's granddaughter saw me." He frowned, "There must be a shortcut for her to get there that fast. She sicced Brock's accomplice on us," he concluded.

"On _you_ ," Cho corrected pointedly. "They think you're blackmailing them. I want you in protective custody."

Jane shook his head, "Bad idea. We don't know who to trust."

"Then lie low in Sacramento till we can collar them."

Dead serious, "I will not lead them to Lisbon. Or anyone else we know. We deal with this here."

"You're a target. That's my top concern."

"Meh," Jane shrugged, unimpressed. "That wasn't planned but it opens up new options." Gaze unfocused, he thought aloud, "We have three avenues of attack. My cell phone – you still have it, right?" Cho nodded. "–My cell phone connects us to them as much as it lets them track me."

"Use it to set a trap?" Cho hazarded.

Jane nodded. "Hunting me will keep them busy. There can't be more than a few."

"Brock would keep it small to minimize the risk of leaks–"

"–Or betrayal," Jane added.

"I figure an IT specialist, explosives expert, maybe one more. They're accomplices to mass murder. Big incentive to silence anyone who might know. Permanently."

Jane flicked his hand, dismissing Cho's worry as he pursued his ideas. "Meanwhile, we try to trace the money linking the Iranian terrorist to Brock and others. Our team or Abbott's people can deep dive on that and into anyone who might have worked with Brock." He glanced hopefully at Cho. "Won't yesterday's attack justify a search warrant on Wentworth?"

"We'll try. Circumstantial. Speculative."

"She's involved, I'm sure of it."

Cho leaned back and considered her possible role. "If you're right about Wentworth," he began, ignoring Jane's disapproval at the 'if,' "she had to somehow connect to US foreign assets. She wouldn't personally recruit an Iranian terrorist, arrange travel, pay him off secretly."

Jane leaned forward, "Break her and she'll lead us to the others."

"Or arrest who's hunting you and break him." Cho drank some coffee. "What's the third way?"

Jane shrugged. "The IG's army of lawyers. They'll sift through everything to figure out who's pursuing an agenda counter to administration policy." He scoffed disdainfully, "This administration could be over by the time they build legal cases. What's the point?"

"The Director and AG will reassign them. Limit the damage they could do."

Jane puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled in frustration. "We need to break Wentworth or one of Brock's accomplices. If we can't get a warrant on Wentworth, let's have Abbott look into her lover. Abbott said the FBI has leeway in monitoring agents."

Cho blinked, only dimly recalling seeing her with an FBI agent on an earlier trip to DC. "We don't know who–"

"Affairs are juicy gossip. Abbott's admin would know."

"I'll ask." Cho steeled himself to listen with an open mind. "What's your plan for hunting the accomplices?"

"Let's play it this way..."

Fifteen minutes later they had outlined an approach. Jane finished by saying, "Make calls, send texts so it looks like I'm still using the phone. They'll assume I'm staying at the hotel."

"I'll have the team here noon, Sunday."

"Wylie can do what we need in DC?"

"Yeah. You'll be at the Guyana embassy till then?"

Jane shook his head. "I need to keep moving."

"How can I contact you?"

"You can't." Cho frowned but stayed silent. "I'll call your new burner and you can put me on speaker with the team. It's too dangerous to meet in person."

Grudgingly, "Okay. Till then you do nothing. Contact me if there's _any_ sign they've found you." Jane's nod didn't deflect Cho's stare.

Jane rolled his eyes but acquiesced. He affirmed, singsong, "I won't start anything without the team and I'll call if they find me. I'll be careful."

"I'm holding you to it. Lisbon's already p.o.'d."

Jane huffed. "Tell me about it."

Cho rose and tossed money down to cover the tab and they exited the restaurant. "Don't be stupid."

Jane grinned at the understated concern.

A minute later and Jane was gone.

 **Jane, DC**

Jane slid into the black stretch limousine that appeared at the side of the Guyanese embassy. He had returned to change clothes and retrieve his scant possessions only to be told he had a call. A brief conversation and a few minutes' wait and he was on his way. The driver politely rebuffed attempts at conversation except to say the trip would take about 15 minutes, depending on traffic.

The limo pulled through a gate that automatically closed behind them. Lush landscaping disguised the high wall and electronic security measures that protected the building. The driver opened the passenger door and escorted him to the carved mahogany front door.

"Mr. Jane, please follow me." A man dressed in a neat suit led him to a quietly opulent drawing room.

The seated figure looked up. "Patrick, welcome," he said, motioning Jane to be seated.

"Bret," Jane nodded. He sank onto the chair, dropping his plastic bag on the floor.

"I see you're traveling light."

Jane ignored the barb and smiled. "You're looking well. Life after resurrection agrees with you." He looked around. "What is this place?"

"Oh, just a modest convenience for my visits to our nation's capital. Being legitimate requires a surprising amount of cajoling of elected officials. But – first thing first." More sharply, "You invoked my name to – convince – my Guyanese friends to let you to stay the night. Why, pray tell?"

A servant entered and set a sterling tray with a Wedgewood china tea set on a table. He handed cups of perfectly prepared tea to the men and left.

Jane smiled and shrugged. "Better security than a hotel."

"Come, Patrick, don't be coy. You knew I'd be informed." Stiles set his tea aside and leaned forward a bit. "Why would a valued," the subtle emphasis slightly mocking, "FBI consultant need to worry about security? Forty _thousand_ trained agents like the estimable Agent Cho can protect you."

Jane leisurely sipped his tea. "Bret, as a _valued_ FBI consultant, you know I cannot talk about on-going investigations." His emphasis mocked in return.

Stiles leaned back, amused. Smiling slightly, "Now you present a puzzle, something you know I cannot resist." He paused to sip, eyes twinkling over the teacup rim. "So. This involves an on-going investigation. For some reason, your FBI colleagues cannot be trusted to adequately protect you. You stayed the night traveling so light as to forgo even a suitcase." He delicately snorted, "Our government is trillions in debt but surely it can still afford hotels for its hirelings." Stiles tilted his head questioningly.

Jane raised his eyebrows and nodded, encouraging him to continue.

Sighing, "You really won't speak. Very well." Precisely, "An investigation in which you can't trust your own organization must mean internal problems. Serious ones. Blake is long gone. So, corruption? Insubordination?" He watched Jane keenly, picking up minute tells despite Jane's efforts. Questioningly, "Not just an FBI matter, further?" He sat back scrutinizing Jane silently for a full minute. Wonderingly, "New president, new administration, new FBI director, new deputy director. They are all disrupting business as usual among our arrogant politicians and bureaucrats. That hardly engenders loyalty and good will for the interlopers, does it?"

"Those are your speculations not mine, Bret."

"By which I conclude that _is_ the problem... or close enough." Stiles drank more tea. "Not evident is why I should care." He sat calmly watching Jane, a predator watching prey.

"Did I say you should?" Jane asked with a smile. He rose and casually browsed the room while Stiles waited patiently. "Why is Visualize headquartered in the US?" He turned his head to face the other man. "With modern technology you could run things anywhere in the world." Intensely, " _Why the US? Numerous countries would pose fewer risks, fewer complications for a ... non-traditional religion of questionable provenance and legitimacy."_

Stiles's answering smile didn't reach his eyes. "Your turn. Please, feel free to speculate."

Jane continued his leisurely perusal of the room. He reached up and pulled a book down. " _The Federalist Papers._ Interesting." He replaced the book, returned to his chair and crossed his legs. "How were private organizations treated in Nazi Germany, the Soviet Union, Communist China?" The question hung unanswered as the silence lengthened. "Those regimes outlawed religion, competing political parties – any source of authority that might challenge the state." He leaned forward. "I submit Visualize _requires_ the rule of law, cannot survive without it. A shadow government operating outside the law would eventually pose an existential threat to you."

Stiles rubbed his hands idly together. "You indulge in hyperbole, Patrick."

Jane's smile held no warmth. "Is it? A Bret Stiles might be nimble – and ruthless – enough to blunt the raw and awesome power of the state–"

"–'Might'?" his smile a challenge.

"–A lesser talent would succumb."

Frowning slightly, "Assuming I agree that a shadow government might be troublesome, what exactly would you suggest I do?"

Jane leaned forward. "Use those sneaky Visualize confessionals to help identify the unelected, would-be powers playing their own game outside the law. Law enforcement is heavily represented in Visualize. The FBI, CIA, NSA, Homeland. All of them."

"Then what?"

"The information could help clean up the problem. Without identifying its source, of course. All actions would be legal."

Stiles mused, "You actually believe it's more than power politics." He looked up, "You're confident it would be worthwhile?"

Jane nodded. "Solid tips would facilitate the official investigation. I would thwart any ... temptations to go after Visualize enemies. Hypothetically, of course."

Stiles tilted his head. "Intriguing. I will consider it." He rose. "Feel free to stay here for the duration of this ... inconvenience." He grinned, "I do so enjoy your needing Visualize to protect you from the FBI. Quite delicious, really." He looked down and sniffed derisively. "My staff can retrieve your luggage."

Jane smiled, "Your hospitality is unparalleled, Bret. Thank you."

"Thank _you_ , Patrick. Your company never disappoints."

Stiles spoke quietly to a servant in the hallway, then disappeared. Jane was escorted to a beautifully appointed guest suite. The resident chef would prepare anything he wanted and he was free to use the internet, phone and library. Other areas were private. When he checked, Jane learned private meant locked and guarded.

 **Lisbon, Sacramento, Saturday Night**

Lisbon lifted a soapy hand from her bath and swiped her cell screen. "Hello?" Having their former business office receive and forward their calls was one of Jane's elaborate security measures. Their cells couldn't easily be used to track their locations. She sighed in relief and put it on speaker. "Jane, are you all right, where are you?"

"I'm in fine fettle, somewhere safe."

"With Cho?"

"No. Hanging around law enforcement is anything but safe until Brock's accomplices are arrested."

Frowning, "What the hell, Jane! Who knows how many trained agents are after you and Cho isn't there?"

Soothingly, "Teresa, relax. Right now anonymity is the best protection. The team gets in tomorrow and we'll put our plan in motion. –How are you holding up?" Regretfully, "I'd hoped we could do something enjoyable this holiday."

She sighed and sank lower into the warm water. "I'm fine. Things are heating up around the politicking, the campaigning. I'd need to say on top of that regardless of the holiday."

A frown evident in his voice, "I thought threats against Muslims had died down."

"They have, but a lot of people were injured or killed. The shock is turning into anger against government for not protecting them." Her shrug rippled the water. "It may be better for that anger to focus on government rather than innocent Muslims, even though–"

"–It doesn't make sense."

"A foreign terrorist illegally crossed the border in another state. Hard to figure why California is to blame but people feel threatened. So far the demonstrations have been peaceful. Not sure it'll stay that way."

They fell silent as they mulled the latest problem. Jane ventured, "You're feeling okay?" Delicately, "The extra stress on top of our personal hopes can't be helpful."

Brusquely, "The job is what it is. We won't know if it worked for nine more days. No point in worrying about it."

"Yeah." Frustrated, "Promise me you'll do something nice for yourself. –Maybe break out the Ben and Jerry's or your favorite chocolate. For me."

A smile broke through for the first time. "I can do that." Stronger, "I _will_ do that."

"Good. Miss you. Love you."

Softly, "Me too. Stay safe, Patrick."


End file.
